I felt bad about making an error on such a basic assumption, but glad that Mrs. Swan was resourceful enough to make our meeting happen.
“Well, I’m glad you came.”
She looked at Danielle and me, and then at her gloves.
“Your note said sum’ting about Markus goin’ to university.”
“Yes, ma’am. You see, in the United States, we have many colleges, and they compete for everything. The best students, the most research funding, the best athletes. One way they attract the best student-athletes is to offer scholarships. That is, they pay for the tuition, and sometimes the accommodation for students who also complete in athletics for the school.”
“Dey pay for it?”
“That’s right. Now I don’t want you to think that this will definitely happen, that a school with be interested. But there is a chance. I’ve seen him run. He may be good enough.”
“So he run dare, or he run here. What da difference?”
“Well, the difference is, that at a college he will not only have state-of-the-art facilities and top coaching, he will also be required to go to classes, and at the end of four years, he will come out with a college degree.”
“Like at school.”
“Yes, pretty much. But he’ll be running against the best in the United States, and if he’s good enough, the world. And if he is that good, he’ll still be able to make it to the World Champs or the Olympics for Jamaica. Many Olympic athletes are also students at US colleges. But if it happens that he isn’t that good, that he can’t make a living from running, he will still get a degree at the end.”
“Dot is good.”
“Yes, ma’am, it is. The question is, are his grades at school good enough to gain admission to a good college?”
“His report is good. Markus is a good student. He has As in all his classes, except home economics.”
“Home economics?”
“Cooking class. It is not his gift.”
“I understand. Mine either. But if his grades are strong, that will help.”
“So what must we do?” she asked.
“I know some people at my old college. It’s in Florida, so not too far away. I can speak to them and see if there is any chance.”
“Dot would be good. Tank you.”
“It’s no problem. But there is one problem.”
“Mista Richmond,” she said. Her face scrunched up as she said it.
“That’s right. I mentioned the idea to him last night, and he didn’t seem keen at all.”
“Markus runs for a university, dare be nuttin’ in it for Mista Richmond.”
“Right. That was my impression. He seems keen to focus on races that pay to win.”
“Or pay not to win.”
I nodded and thought about what she had told me about her husband being forced to throw cricket matches by Winston, and how it ended up driving him away. She clearly saw Richmond as the lesser of two evils. But evil nevertheless.
“Well, for now, let’s keep it to ourselves. I’ll deal with Mr. Richmond if and when I have to.”
She nodded, looked at her gloves, and then looked up at me. Her frown had returned.
“E’body wants some’ting from my boy. Mista Winston, Mista Richmond, most e’body who you saw last night. My question is, suh, you do all dis for him. What do you want?”
It was a good question. I’d been watching everyone around Markus Swan with an eye to what was in it for them, what they wanted from him, and I hadn’t stopped to consider my own motives. Of course, I thought them pure, just as I was sure everyone else thought theirs to be. But Mrs. Swan’s question gave me pause to think about it. Why was I helping them? Was it simply because I was there, and because I could? Was there more to it? Did I want something from the kid? Glory revisited, perhaps? Then I remembered my mentor, the late, great Lenny Cox. He had done more for me when I needed it than any other person besides my own mother, and he had never asked for anything in return, except to invite me to join his firm when I quit baseball. And then he had left the firm to me in his will. But in-between time he had lived by and taught me one overriding life principle: pay it forward. It sounded like a hippy, tree-hugging kind of deal, to live like karma was your guiding light. But the thing was, Lenny had never spoken of it. He never once told me to pay it forward, never used the word karma. He just did it. He helped people who needed helping, just because he could. Maybe he did it to feel good, but I never really knew for sure. And in my book, if all the payment you asked for was to feel good inside, it was a price worth paying. Every time. I held Mrs. Swan’s eyes and told her the only thing I could think of to say, whether she believed it or not.
“I’ll tell you what I want, Mrs. Swan. To feel good about myself. When I was young, someone helped me, and asked nothing in return. And now it’s my turn. That’s all I can tell you.”
She watched me, and I saw her pupils move across every line and every wrinkle in my face. Then she nodded. She didn’t smile, but she seemed comfortable.
“I’ll speak to the college, and we’ll take it from there, okay?”
She nodded again and stood, and we stood with her.
“Tank you, Mista Jones.”
“You’re welcome.”
As we walked her to the lobby entrance, Danielle spoke. “How did you get here, ma’am?”
“I walked. It not be far.”
“Well, let us get you a taxi home.”
“No, I cannot accept dot.”
I stopped before the valet desk. “Mr. Richmond paid me for looking out for Markus. I don’t need his money. Let him pay for your ride home.”
Mrs. Swan offered a small smile. “Why not?”
We put Mrs. Swan in a battered-looking minivan and I handed the driver two twenties and told him to take her home. We stood under the portico and watched the van turn around and pull out through the security gate and out of view. Then Danielle turned to me.
“Do you think you can really make a scholarship happen?”
“That’s not up to me. All I can do is connect the pieces—I can’t make them fit.”
We turned from the driveway of the resort but were stopped by the sound of a car coming to a skidding stop behind us. We turned to see a police-issue Suzuki Jimny. The door flew open and Corporal Lucia Tellis stepped out.
Chapter Twenty-One
LUCIA DROVE US back into MoBay. She had come up with the bright idea that no one had actually questioned Cornelius Winston, and decided she was the one to do it. Her plan was to wear a wire, on the off chance Winston said something incriminating, and she figured we could make sure the recording equipment was working. Plus she thought we’d get a kick out of seeing the place where Winston was due to have lunch. She had a mischievous glint in her eye.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” I asked from the backseat. “It could bring some heat.”
“He thinks he is untouchable, and as long as we are afraid to do our jobs and question him, he is going to continue believing that.”
I raised my eyebrows at Danielle in the front, and she returned a grin that said she liked the way Lucia went about things.
The Uxbridge Club simply didn’t belong in Jamaica. It was a throwback to a colonial past that Winston and his ilk were trying to preserve. The irony that they would never be in the positions they were in if the British still ran the island had no place in the wood paneling and leather chairs of the Uxbridge Club. We pulled up to the tall iron gates, and Lucia showed her ID to the guard, who frowned and shrugged in one motion, and then opened the gate. The Club sat on lush grounds in a stately home that the tourist set would have given their last drop of sun lotion to visit. But that wasn’t going to happen. The Uxbridge Club was an exclusive gentlemen’s club, which meant something very different here from what it meant at home in Florida.
Lucia parked her police car to the side of the building. It was both in deference to the club not wanting a police vehicle sullying its circular driveway, and because we did
n’t want the valet questioning why Danielle and I were there. We checked that Lucia’s microphone was working and that the remote digital recorder was capturing her voice, and then she slid out and marched toward the front door. Danielle and I sat in the car, listening through one earbud each to her breathing as she mounted the stairs to the club. We heard someone question how he could help her, and clearly she had shown her police ID, because the voice then asked what her business was.
“I’m here to see Mr. Winston,” she said.
“I’m not sure he’s here, ma’am.”
“He’s here. So will you take me to him or will I just wander through every room until I find him?”
“No, ma’am. He’s on the back patio. This way.”
Danielle and I caught each other’s look, and then we jumped out of the car and scampered along the side of the brick building. The palms were well tended but provided plenty of cover. We reached the end of the building and peered around. The back of the clubhouse featured an expansive wooden deck, slowly rotating overhead fans moving breeze across white linen tablecloths and silver coffee carafes. All of the guests were men, and all wore jackets and ties. Plenty of frowns were directed toward Lucia as she followed a guy dressed like a butler across the deck. Perhaps it was the fact she was a woman, perhaps her police uniform. Perhaps both.
We saw the butler reach a table where Cornelius Winston was lunching with another man. We hurriedly stuffed the earbuds back in so we could hear the conversation.
“I’m sorry, sir,” said the butler.
Winston frowned at the interruption, glanced at Lucia, and his face dissolved into a smug smile.
“What is it?” he said.
Lucia stepped forward. “Corporal Lucia Tellis, Jamaican Constabulary Force, suh.”
Winston raised his eyebrow to his lunch buddy. “My, the police are much more amenable to the eye than in my day.”
The lunch buddy had his back to us so I couldn’t see his reaction, but I was going with a smug grin, so I didn’t like him already.
“What is it I can do for you, young lady?” asked Winston.
“I am investigating the assault of a young athlete, sir.”
“You are? Well, good for you.”
“Yes, sir. You are aware of the assault, of course.”
I thought I saw the smug veneer crack a little on Winston’s face.
“I’m afraid not. Why would I know anything, young lady?”
“It’s Corporal, sir. And I assumed that being head of the All-Schools Athletics, you would be concerned by an assault on one of your athletes.”
“You assume that, do you? Well, I assure you I am concerned. But it seems to be a police matter, and I have the utmost confidence in your ability to do your job.”
Danielle glanced at me. “Cheeky,” she said. I nodded in return. I was focusing hard on Winston’s face, but my attention was pulled away by a heavy hand slapping onto my shoulder. I turned to see a giant of a man holding a machete. He was sweating like a weightlifter, and his white shirt fell open to a strong, ebony chest. He looked like he’d just wandered off a sugarcane plantation, from a hundred years ago.
“What are you doin’?” he asked, though it didn’t really sound like a question. “You can’t be here.”
We pulled around the corner a touch so we weren’t seen from the patio, and stood to face the big man. Danielle gave him a smile which did nothing for his demeanor. I was more focused on the machete. I was trying to think of something to say when I heard voices in my earbud.
“Sir,” said Lucia, “were you also not aware that two of your guests were run off the road and attacked coming home from your fundraiser the other night?”
“Of course, I heard. It was a terrible occurrence, but since it happened on a public road, it really is none of my concern.”
Danielle glanced back toward Lucia and the big guy watched her do it, and his eyes were drawn toward the patio. I thought about going for the machete, but even with him distracted that was going to be a tough get, and I didn’t like the odds. The big unit looked back to me.
“What are you doin’ here?” he demanded again.
Words escaped me as I canvased the options that would make him lose the frown and the machete, not necessarily in that order. Danielle came up with something first.
“We’re with the police,” she said. It wasn’t the direction I would have gone, but that was now irrelevant.
“Police?” said the big guy. Danielle nodded.
“I get da boss man.” He went to move, and then appeared to think about what we might do if he left us alone. He waved the machete, pointing us back toward the front of the building. We followed his order, keeping close to the wall and away from the machete. I heard Lucia tell Winston that the assault victims had confirmed they were followed from Rose Hall, so the assailants must have been at the Hall during the event. Winston gave a dismissive laugh, and said there was no evidence of that. Then the big guy in front of me waved the machete just a little too close, and I leaned back, pulling the bud from my ear.
We reached the front of the building, and the big guy hesitated. It seemed that his remit at the club did not extend to public appearances in front of the patrons, and I wondered if he’d been threatened by a member of the club for nothing more than being a giant black man. He caught the eye of a valet, who looked us over, raised his eyebrows as his brain kicked into gear, and then ran inside. He returned a moment later with another man who was dressed in a fine-looking suit. He was a short fellow with a considerable girth, but the suit fit him well. He strode over to us, throwing a glance at Lucia’s police car parked askew.
“What is going on?” he said with the frown that was becoming the popular response to our presence wherever we went.
“I found dem in da garden,” said the big guy. “Dey say dey wit da police.” He shook his head at the last part, sure that it was complete baloney. Danielle was in a sundress and I wore cargo shorts, so it was a fair assumption. The well-dressed fellow gave me a good look over, like a school principal who knows you’re up to no good but just hasn’t caught you at it yet, then his face opened up as if the penny had dropped and he turned to the big guy. He spoke in rapid fire, possibly English but impossible to follow. The big guy nodded deeply, took two steps back, then turned and wandered away into the foliage from whence he had come. We watched him go, and then turned back to the well-dressed man, clueless about what was happening. The man stepped close to me.
“You are Miami Jones.”
Like they say, everybody dies famous in a small town. When you’ve played professional sports, even minor league ball like me, more people know you than the average Joe. It was true—I’d even made the papers a few times with cases we had broken. But none of those things happened in Jamaica, so I had no clue how this guy knew me.
“How do you . . .?”
“Mista Jones, you are protectin’ young Markus. His fadda is my cousin.”
“That so?”
“Yes, suh. Now what brings you to the Uxbridge Club?”
I gave him the abridged version and his frown returned. “Mista Winston not a mon to be mussed wit, suh. I suggest you wait in da car, let the police do dare bidness.”
I agreed and thanked him, and he bid us good day. Danielle and I clambered back into the police car and stuffed an earbud each back in. All we heard was static. I played with the receiver and wiggled the wires, then Danielle put her hand on mine to get my attention and I followed her gaze to see Corporal Tellis stepping down to the driveway. She marched back to us and got it.
“Did you hear?” she asked.
“To a point,” said Danielle. “We got interrupted.”
“Interrupted?”
“Doesn’t matter,” I said. “You told him we knew we had been trailed from Rose Hall and he said there was no evidence of that.”
Lucia nodded. “Yes, he said that. And I told him that one of the victims was a visiting law enforcement officer who had been trai
ned to notice such things.”
“You overestimate PBSO training, me thinks,” I said.
Danielle slapped my arm. “I am well trained.”
I rubbed my arm theatrically. “Don’t I know it. So what happened then?”
“I told him based on that evidence I would need a complete list of all guests and staff at the event. He didn’t think that was such a great idea.”
“I bet,” said Danielle.
“So I suggested that non-cooperation with the investigation wouldn’t look very good for someone in his position. At that point he suggested that he would look into it and I would receive any information needed through the assistant commissioner.”
“Ooh, namedropper,” I said.
“Quite, and—” She was interrupted by the crackle of the police radio. She grabbed the handset and responded, then there was a burst of speech that between the static and the accent was completely beyond me. Lucia responded in the affirmative and replaced the handset, and then started the car.
“What was that?” asked Danielle.
Lucia smiled. “I’ve been called into headquarters. The assistant commissioner wants to talk to me.”
“Your grapevine is like a superhighway,” I said, flopping back into the rear seat as Lucia pulled around the large circular driveway and out toward the iron gates that opened like massive jaws as we approached.
Had the police headquarters had a better paint job it would have peeled. Such was the dressing-down that Assistant Commissioner Harrow gave Corporal Tellis. Danielle and I hung back and waited in the lobby, but Harrow’s stern voice echoed down the stairs for all to hear. I noted a few other officers shaking their heads, mostly with wry grins on their faces, so I assumed it wasn’t the first time. My guess was that it was Lucia’s first time, though, and I was fully prepared for a browbeaten young officer to reappear down the stairs. I could see Danielle felt it too.
“It’s not your fault,” I said.
“I encouraged her.”
“Exactly. She was headed in that direction anyway. And you know it’s the right direction.”
Danielle nodded softly but said nothing, so I let it lie. The yelling died away and the silence was worse. I had all sorts of visions of what was happening upstairs, from Harrow ripping the name patch from Lucia’s uniform to him asking for her badge, and her gun, which I realized she didn’t even carry. We waited for longer than was necessary for whatever Harrow might be doing, and I started to think she wasn’t coming back, then I saw her come down the steps and we both stood. She didn’t look browbeaten. She looked defiant. Lucia saw us and as she approached she grinned and gave us a wink.
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