The Nassau Secret (The Lang Reilly Series Book 8)

by Gregg Loomis

  And she wasn’t finished. “It looks to me that even if you don’t care who killed Livia, you’d care about who put your pal Phil McGrath in the hospital.”

  Lang glanced at Gurt. He wasn’t going to get help from that quarter. He cleared his throat, not because he needed to but to give him an extra nano-second to think. He began in his most reasonable tone, the one he used when trying to convince a jury of the highly improbable. “Celeste, I know this is an emotional time for you, but think: As far as I know, no one has determined Livia was murdered.”

  Celeste gave a derisive shake of the head. “The more shame on them! If you’re suggesting I accept the theory that she went about as far from our hotel as possible without leaving the island to go swimming in her clothes where there’s no beach. . .”

  “No one said she was found where she died. The tides and currents. . .”

  He was not to be allowed to finish. “Lang, believe what you will. You know her death has murder written all over it. If you won’t help get justice for her, I’ll find someone who will! Now if you will excuse me, I have other guests to attend to.”

  With that, she stalked off, her very back exuding anger.

  Thirty minutes later, Lang and Gurt sat at school desks in one of the four rooms the Varsity provides its customers, each with a different network on a television mounted on the front wall. Neither cared about the TV, the two were the only seats they could find together.

  Gurt looked at Lang’s paper plate with clear disapproval.

  “What?”

  “Two hot dogs heaped with chili, fried onion rings and a fried peach pie washed down with an orange drink with ice cream floating in it? You would want Manfred to eat like that?”

  Lang used a paper napkin to wipe a bit of chili from his chin. “Manfred isn’t here.”

  “The calories and cholesterol are.”

  “The Varsity hasn’t been here since 1928 by selling tofu.”

  “Why do Americans call them ‘hot dogs’ when they are actually sausages?” she wanted to know. “They do not resemble, say, Grumps.”

  Thank God for small favors.

  Gurt’s very literal Teutonic mind had not totally embraced the American idiom.

  But he said. “I think back when they were invented, someone thought they looked like a dachshund.”

  “So does almost every other Wurst.”

  From experience, Lang knew she had something other than frankfurters, wieners or hot dogs on her mind. A discussion of the banal was usually a prelude to something he wasn’t going to like.

  Gurt almost disdainfully nibbled at her Naked Steak, a plain hamburger and changed the subject. “You disappointed your friend Celeste.”

  The onion ring stopped halfway to Lang’s mouth. “Disappointed? I never even intimated I’d go to Nassau.”

  “I can see why she might think you would. She is one reason you never spent a dime on advertising.”

  Lang returned the half devoured onion ring to his plate, staring in bewilderment. “The reason I’ve never advertised is,” holding up his forefinger, “one: I’ve got plenty of business and,” holding up the index finger, “advertising is the province of personal injury sleazebags who operate on a volume basis: get a case in and get it settled, never mind if trying it would be better for the client.”

  Unperturbed, Gurt took another bite. “She once called you, what was it? ‘The cream of the white collar defense crop.’ It was right before that the mayor hired you to defend him.”

  “Ex mayor and we don’t know that article had anything to do with his decision to retain me.”

  “And it was right after you got that man off for stealing from the bank and her article . . .”

  “Embezzlement was the charge and he didn’t do it.”

  “Whatever, it was right after that man who did all the mortgage frauds . . .”

  Lang had forgotten the onion ring. “Are you suggesting I should drop what I’m doing and go Nassau? I mean, we made a deal years ago: No more getting into dangerous situations, no more endangering ourselves. For Manfred’s sake, remember? No risking him becoming an orphan.”

  Gurt dabbed at her lips with the paper napkin. “I think you owe this woman Celeste.”

  No mind hobgoblined by foolish consistencies here. In fact, no consistency at all. But then, womankind in general and Gurt in particular were not noted for the trait.

  Lang guessed he was in for a trip.

  13.

  Government House

  Nassau, Bahamas

  August, 1940

  The Duchess wept.

  It seemed she had done little else in the eight days it had taken the ship to bring her and the Duke here. She had not wanted to come at all and the Duke had resisted the insistence of that wretched man Churchill that he do so. Only a reminder from the new prime minister that the duke may have abdicated the throne to marry a twice divorced American woman of dubious reputation but he was still an army officer who went where he was sent had settled the question.

  The warship that had brought them to this third-rate British colony as the Duke described it, had been an old Apollo Class protected cruiser, a relic of the last war. Even the captain’s quarters, which he generously surrendered, had been unsuitable for a king, even a former king. The Duke had tried to explain to his wife that the Royal Navy was a bit busy right now. With U boats sinking ships almost at will, the few modern ships had other if not better uses. Besides, the Royal Navy’s warships weren’t designed to be luxurious.

  But she had been inconsolable, convinced the Duke’s younger brother and his wife had arranged their transportation in the shabbiest ship available. Some brother! He and his pretentious wife had not only usurped what was rightfully her husband’s and hers, but they had snubbed them at every opportunity, hadn’t even attended the wedding.

  Now it was Government House, their new home. Sitting atop the closest thing New Providence Island had to a real hill, the Georgian Colonial was as down at the heels as the ship on which they had arrived: In front was an incredibly tacky twelve-foot statue of a man in a slouch hat and toga looking more like a pirate than who the attached plaque claimed he was, “Christopher Columbus.”

  The conch-pink paint was peeling from the coral and rock walls and a half dozen or so of the wooden shutters had shed their louvers as well as their white paint. Inside was even worse: High gloss blue paint and Victorian furniture, most of which was hemorrhaging its stuffing onto reed mats that served as rugs.

  The place had supposedly been remodeled in the last ten years to repair the hurricane damage of 1929, most of which was still quite visible.

  The duke pointed to the sweeping view of the harbor while wrapping an arm around her waist, “Not so bad, is it now, Wally?”

  She pushed him away. “It’s not Monts in France, not Chateau de Cande’, is it?” she sniffed, referring to the country estate where they had been married and stayed for some time as guests. “Besides those boats reek of fish. Can’t you smell them?”

  He gave an exaggeration of a deep breath. “No, actually, I can’t. I suppose there are worst places.”

  Anger flickered across her face. “David, don’t you realize what has happened? We have been sent to the ends of the earth, your birthright taken!”

  He shook his head, gave her that little-boy smile she once had thought so cute. “No, Wally, no one took anything. I gave it up for you.”

  She could almost scream in frustration. That was it, he had given it up, given up the one thing that she had seen in him.

  14.

  Lynden Pindling International Airport

  The Present

  Lang had decided to take Delta rather than attract attention by arriving in the Foundation’s Gulfstream G650. The downside of the choice was that he would be unarmed since his single bag was subject to scanning.

  He had been at this airport a couple of times previously on his way to take a look at children’s clinics at Andros Town on the Bahamas’ largest isla
nd and French Wells on Crooked Island, one the most remote. With only three hundred people, Crooked Island alone could hardly justify the expense of the facility; but with Acklins, Mayaguana and Little Inagua nearby, children in a frequently ignored part of the country could be served.

  It was those clinics that had made an appointment with the head of the Ministry of Health not only possible but easy. Lang had hinted at another such establishment, perhaps in the northern islands, the Abacos. He had not the remotest intention of doing so. He had learned building anything in this country involved a procession of outstretched hands, nepotism, endless and frequently contradictory regulations and xenophobia, the reason development not involving hundreds of millions of dollars was rare. A brief meeting with the minster, though, provided excellent cover for Lang being here.

  Previously, he had only been in the brilliantly white facilities of Odyssey Aviation, the airport’s larger fixed base operator where Jet-A and customs services could be had as well as a transfer to Bahamas Air whose stout small aircraft took him to runways the Gulfstream could not have used, shorter, dirt runways, some of which served as a main highway.

  Today, he was walking along a concourse that could have been part of any modern airport in the world: High vaulted ceilings were studded with glass, letting in the island sunlight. International brands mixed with local. Here McDonald’s burgers, there The Conch Shack serving, among other things, cracked conch, conch chowder and conch salad.

  From both convenience and training, he had not checked his single suitcase. A man intent on the baggage carousel was a man vulnerable. Besides, checking a bag –and paying for the privilege-was to enter the roulette wheel of chance, no more than a bet it would arrive at the same time and place as its owner.

  Past the baggage claim, a man in a white dress shirt and dark pants held a sign with Lang’s name on it, the driver the Minster of Health had insisted upon providing. Lang recalled his name on a sign in another airport, Brussels. He had been kidnapped by a man masquerading as his assigned driver.

  He introduced himself and then asked, “I assume you have Health Ministry credentials?”

  The man’s brow furrowed. “No, mon. I don’ wok f’ the ministry. Dey jus’ hires me to drive.”

  “What kind of ID do you have?”

  Still puzzled, the man reached into his back pocket, flipped open a wallet and displayed a commercial driver’s license.

  Not good enough.

  Lang pointed to the line of taxis. Now Lang knew what happened to the cars purchased by the President’s Cash for Clunkers program. “Which is yours?”

  The man pointed to a Ford Galaxy displaying an equal number of dents and rust spots. At one time it might have been some variant of red. Lang stuck his head in the open passenger window. Taped to the visor was some sort of license with the name Neville Stubbs on it, the same name as the proffered drivers permit. The picture matched, too.

  Lang got in.

  The thirty minute cab drive to downtown Nassau made Lang nervous. Although the vehicle never topped forty, driving on the left hand side of the road seemed. . . well, uncivilized. The fact the steering wheel of the American made Ford was on the left insured that the driver was practically blind when trying to pass. Instead, the horn was the preferred method of getting around lumbering trucks. At least, that is what Lang surmised since it used regularly although with no ascertainable effect.

  A block or so off the harbor, the cab pulled up to what a plaque nominated as The Poinciana Building. Another announced its occupation by the Ministry of Health.

  The meeting dragged on for a near hour during which the only thing determined was another meeting. The Minister was understandably eager to see concrete plans for the proposed new clinic, Lang reluctant to be specific since he had no intent of building it. The conference ended with smiles, handshakes and mostly empty promises. The minister did, however, have one of his minions summon a cab to take Lang to the British Colonial Hilton.

  Lang had no intent of staying at Atlantis with its water park, dolphin petting and kiddie speedway. Everything to invite parents to abandon their children to run noisily wild. Not only did the place look like a combination of London Bridge and a Mayan temple, he simply preferred old hotels to new. New hotels had amenities; old ones history.

  The British Colonial, built in 1901 by Henry Flagler, the man who invented Florida, had the look of the Belle Epoch hotels, although it had recently been renovated. With its lobby of marble tiles and antiques, it could have been a hostelry in a posh European spa. It had been in two James Bond movies, both with Sean Connery. Six floors on eight acres of lush landscaping and three hundred feet of the island’s only private beach. No rampant kiddies here. No sound of juvenile shouts from a waterpark.

  Lang did not dislike children. He intensely disliked parents who equated rowdy with youth, who equated discipline with cruelty, who inflicted their ill-mannered brood on others under the misunderstanding that they only displayed childish exuberance.

  Lang allowed the bell hop to carry his bag to the top floor, a suite with a panoramic view of beach, city and harbor. He peeled off a ten dollar bill to the man’s obvious delight. An extravagant tip but one never knew when having a friendly hotel staff might come in handy. He noted the name tag, “Nathan.”

  When the door closed, Lang hung his business attire (dress shirt, no tie, slacks) in the closet, exchanging them for golf shirt, Bermuda shorts and sandals.

  Minutes later, he was on Bay Street. Most shops were open stalls. He looked through the plate glass of the few enclosed ones, pretending to admire shell jewelry, straw products and other indigenous trinkets. He was actually studying the reflections of a steady stream of tourists. He saw no one that matched the descriptions Phil McGrath had given him. No one seemed to pay him attention, or, for that matter, notice.

  He worked his way toward the library.

  Feigning interest in the stature of Queen Victoria in Parliament Square, Lang could see anyone coming or going to or from the library. He was unsure of why he was watching but the number of times a vigil had turned up helpful results induced him to give it a try. Half an hour later and the place could have been locked shut for the number of people coming or going.

  He walked around the building, still unsure of what he might be looking for. The rear of the building showed him shuttered windows and a pair of plastic garbage dumpsters, what the British would call rubbish bins. A smaller container, bright red, caught his eye. Looking both ways as though about to cross the street, he moved closer. “Recycling” was stamped on the open box. On top were a couple of plastic water bottles and a crumpled newspaper. Again making sure no one was around to see him, Lang squatted and pulled the newspaper loose. Underneath was a stack of single page leaflets, black print on pale orange paper, listing last week’s events.

  Number three announced:

  The Harry Oakes Murder

  April 15-25: Objects and news clippings concerning the Bahamas’s greatest unsolved mystery including personal effects and correspondence between Nassau’s elite.

  Lang thought a minute. April. . . April 15, tax day. That would have been the day Livia and Celeste had wandered into the library. What was it Celeste had said? Something about Livia wanting to go? She must have seen one of these flyers.

  “Looking for something?”

  Lang spun around to face two men very much resembling the ones Phillip had described: One with a nose broken and poorly set, both with sidewalls, military haircuts. Each with a jacket, the collar of which failed to totally conceal a scar that circled the left side of one man’s neck.

  Who wore jackets in Nassau?

  Someone with something to conceal underneath, that’s who.

  Lang stood. “Who wants to know?”

  Broken Nose had one hand around the other fist as though polishing it. “Bit of a smart arse, wouldn’t you say, Timmy?”

  Timmy, the man with the scar, nodded as he edged to a position that put Lang between the
two of them. “Spot on.” He faced Lang. “Why don’t you save yourself a lot of pain and tell us exactly what your interest might be in those handbills you’re holding? You saw what we did to your mate, McGraw.””

  As they both edged toward him, Lang wished he had chosen to arrive in the Gulfstream, complete with Glock 40 caliber.

  15.

  Nassau

  Seconds later

  Long ago training told Lang waiting for an imminent attack could be fatal. He needed to go on the offensive.

  But how?

  He was standing on the curb of an empty street with nothing but two dumpsters and a recycling bin not much larger than the luggage part of a grocery store buggy a couple of yards away.

  Timmy’s hand came out of a pocket and something caught the afternoon sun: A set of steel knuckles. He took a menacing step toward Lang. “Last chance, Yank: Tell us what’s so interesting about those handbills before your face gets a serious rearrangement.”

  Lang took a step backward, nervously looking over his shoulder, a man needing help in the worst way. “Not like you’re going to let me walk away no matter what I tell you.”

  The grin on Timmy’s face was anything but friendly. “Your problem, mate.”

  By retreating from Timmy, he was approaching Broken Nose. A quick glance over his shoulder told Lang the man was enjoying the show.

  Another step backward, this time stumbling. As he reached to touch the ground to reestablish his balance, Lang came up with the recycling bin. Made of light plastic, it was hardly a suitable weapon, just the only weapon.

  Pirouetting with the grace of a ballerina, Lang slashed it at Broken Nose’s head. The suddenness of the unexpected move made the man’s hands fly instinctively to his face.

  The instant he lifted his arms, Lang’s fist smashed into his solar plexus.

  Broken Nose doubled over, expelling air like a punctured balloon.

  Lang was on him like a pouncing cat.

  Advantage Lang: He had his arms around the man’s neck, his elbows grasped by the opposite hand, forming a vice with Broken Nose’s throat in between.