by Barry Lancet
As they disappeared behind the dividing curtain, Noda said, “Good. We’ll have some peace.”
I dozed for most of the flight. The plane was filled with American and European tourists, and maybe three other Japanese. The rest were Barbadians, a warm people in a range of hues from white to a faint tan to coffee-colored to dark cocoa. They had ready smiles and a laid-back attitude I liked. The local term for it was liming, according to Durgan, which meant kicking back and enjoying food, friends, and life. Island life. A strong dose of waves and rays could do that to you.
Their accents, lively and musical, peppered my dreams.
* * *
Before I knew it the pilot announced our imminent arrival at Grantley Adams International Airport, eight miles from the capital city of Bridgetown. With eyes closed, I listened to him tell his captive audience that the island country was only twenty-one by fourteen miles, the same size as Montreal.
“For you Americans, it’s about three and half times the size of San Francisco, or twice the size of Washington, D.C. For our European contingent, think one-quarter the size of London. But not to worry. Even as small as Barbados is, I won’t miss the runway.”
After allowing for a round of laughter, he offered a visitor’s tip: “Should you be in the surf when a rain starts, don’t bother leaving the water. This island paradise is that warm.” More laughter.
True to his word, the plane touched down without incident. As the jet cruised to the arrival gate, the head purser came on the PA and asked everyone to remain seated once we docked while officials boarded to escort visiting VIPs from the aircraft. The procedure would require only a minute, and we were requested to be patient because “the island wasn’t going anywhere.” Still more laughter.
As soon as the cabin door opened, a contingent of Barbadian policemen stalked onto the airliner. They wore tan uniforms and stiff black caps. There were more frowns than smiles.
“That doesn’t look good,” I said to Noda, my eyes glued to the retreating figures as they headed to the front of the plane.
The police welcome wagon returned two minutes later with Yano, Kato, and Rie in tow. Two men leading, three behind. Walking proudly on the back of his heels, Yano was chatting gaily with the leader, who sported a toothy grin. As they turned to exit, Yano shot a haughty glance our way. Among other things, the look said that he would monopolize the police and elbow us from the case if he could.
Then they were gone.
“You see that?” I said.
“Yeah,” Noda said.
“The MPD’s plan from the start?”
Noda grunted. “Windup toys are preprogrammed.”
The purser thanked us for our patience and said we could disembark.
Why bother, I thought.
A sentiment I would have been wise to heed.
CHAPTER 71
PASSENGERS lined up single file at Passport Control. A window opened up and Noda walked over and presented his documents. When the next position became available, I headed past Noda toward the waiting official. The inspector examining Noda’s passport waved two armed guards over.
“Take this passenger to the waiting room,” I heard him say.
“My passport’s in order,” Noda said, a challenge in his voice.
The guard nodded. “Just routine, my friend. We’re interviewing all Japanese on your flight.”
“On all incoming flights?”
“No. Only yours. They’ll clear you in a couple of minutes, then you’ll be on your way.”
The Barbados police were no dummies. They were sifting our flight for sleepers from the Tokyo police. As the guards led him off, Noda avoided a glance in my direction.
I cleared Immigration without a hitch, took a seat in Arrivals, and settled in to wait for my chief detective.
Five minutes passed, then ten, then fifteen.
My phone rang. It was Durgan.
“No can do on the guns.”
“Why not?”
“Outsiders with firepower on the island get manhandled badly if they’re caught. Cops come down worse on the locals, so my connection balked, even after I offered twice the going rate. Publicized gunplay guts the tourist trade, which makes up nearly eighty percent of the jobs. They offered knives with ankle sheaths. Will that do?”
“I hate knives,” I said. “We’ll go without.”
Durgan sighed. “It’ll hurt their feelings to refuse, so just accept the weapons and leave them in your room. One of them will swing by your hotel shortly.”
“All right.”
Durgan was silent for a beat longer than he should have been.
“Something wrong?” I asked.
“Bad news on the wire.”
“What?”
“Your Mrs. Miura. She disappeared yesterday.”
“Disappeared how?”
“An accident in the ’Glades. The little kid, too. Presumed dead.”
I felt something in my chest plummet.
Three people had taken out an airboat rental but never returned, Durgan told me. Five hours after departure, another boater found the capsized vessel in the saw grass. There were no signs of the passengers—Mrs. Miura, her son, and an unidentified Japanese man.
The police confirmed the identity of Mrs. Miura and her son through her credit card and a driver from the Biltmore, who had been waiting in the parking lot for the return trip. The Japanese man had arrived separately and his identity remained unknown. The police classified the incident as an accident, with an eye toward homicide since no unclaimed cars were left in the lot overnight. A local police expert added that if the bodies did indeed go into the water it was likely that the “alligators had tucked them away in a cubbyhole or under a log until they ripened and the eating was good. Gators are lazy hunters and not overly fond of human flesh, but if food is lying around they’ll snatch it up.”
I said, “Think there was a second boat waiting?”
“With all the action in this case, I’d have to go with a yea. Naysayers are few. If any bodies turn up, it’ll be the wife and kid. The man’s long gone.”
I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply. Little Ken Miura. Glazed eyes, helpless on his own, but endearing nonetheless. Never a chance in this world, and wiped off its face in a flash. And only a year older than Jenny, who was just a shade less helpless. My daughter wrestled with no disabilities, but children were children.
“Did this happen before or after Inoki left town?”
“After.”
Which ruled his party out. Their involvement didn’t make sense anyway. Most likely, the lover had turned on Mrs. Miura once he had a line on the ducats.
I thanked Durgan and hung up. My vigil for Noda continued. My phone rang again.
I hit the connect button and Rie said, “It’s me.” She was whispering. “Did they grab you?”
“No. Are you saying what I think you are?”
“Yes. That wasn’t an official welcoming party. They were rounding us up.”
“Are you okay?”
“For the moment.”
“Are you still with the police?”
“Yes, but they confiscated our passports and cell phones. I’m in the ladies’ room calling you on my iPod touch via Skype. The whole station’s wired for Wi-Fi and it works in here, too.”
“Are you in any danger?”
“No, it’s not that. This is about control. Inspector Kato overheard two of them talking. They aren’t going to let us out in public anytime soon.”
Suddenly I was feeling a lot less secure.
“Is Noda with you?”
“No. Why? Wait. I hear voices. I’ll call you back as soon as I can.”
She was gone several minutes, then my phone chirped again. When I picked up, Rie’s breathing was ragged. “I only have a minute. They’re moving us to some VIP guesthouse. In the photo it’s got three stories, sky-high colonnades, and a fifteen-foot-high grill fence. After they debrief us, I think they’re going to sweep this whole thing under the
rug.”
“Is there anything I can do?”
“Nothing except stay away from the police. Oh, and I heard one of them say they’re bringing Noda in. His Brodie Security business cards gave him away. They’ll be coming for you next, unless you had the good sense to make separate reservations.”
“We did.”
It was standard practice at the office to book all hotels and plane tickets separately. Our affiliates were required to do the same. Until now, I never understood why we bothered.
“Got to go,” Rie said. “Be careful, okay?”
“You too,” I said into a dial tone.
She was gone.
The Barbados police had scooped up Yano, Kato, Rie, and most probably Noda.
On the off chance the ornery detective might bulldoze his way through, I gave him thirty minutes more, but he never emerged from behind the secure area.
I was on my own.
CHAPTER 72
I TOOK a taxi to the Accra Beach Hotel in Bridgetown, where Durgan had booked rooms for us. In hindsight, I wish I’d taken the Miami detective up on his offer to help. He would have made it through the police dragnet at Immigration, and I’d have backup.
Too late now.
I checked in. The town was a pleasant mix of modern colonial and tropic island pastel, salted with a healthy dose of tourist eye-pleasers. Sun and music and bright smiles greeted you wherever you looked. Fluttering overhead in prominent places was the Barbadian flag—two broad vertical bands of royal blue at the sides, with a swatch of bright yellow in the middle overlaid with the head of a three-pronged trident, symbol of the country’s British heritage.
The Accra, like the Biltmore, was Mediterranean and, in its beachside setting, nearly as monolithic, though it topped out at four stories. It was a shade lighter and a third of the price. For that you got as much sunshine, more palm trees, long stretches of white beach, but wicker instead of burnished antiques. Nor were there finches in the lobby. But the bed was firm and the shower was strong and hot. Since I wasn’t here to soak up the rays, I had all I needed.
The front bell rang. I checked the peephole. No one. Cautiously, I inched the door open. On the floor was a fruit basket. I glanced up and down the hall. No one. Right. I scooped up the basket, closed the door, and threw the dead bolt. I brought the basket to a table and unwrapped it. Under the fruit were two knives with six-inch blades and Velcro holsters. On the bottom was a handwritten note.
Welcome to Barbados, Mr. Jim. Certain arriving passengers from Miami, Florida, America, have two places. Hotel rooms in Bridgetown and rental in Turtle Beach. Beach house is most private. After we have eye contact on them, we call you.
—A friend of Fitch
I was pleased. Either digitally or through the good-old-boy’s network, Durgan’s people had unmasked Inoki’s movements, and eyes-on was due shortly. The idea of two rentals was confusing, but once a visual sighting was confirmed, I could deal with it. The only hitch was whether Noda, Kato, and Rie could untangle themselves from the authorities’ preemptive embrace. The local constabulary could keep Yano as a consolation prize.
I called Durgan. “Got the fruit basket. What else can you tell me?”
“You’re in an island paradise, man. Brilliant stretches of beach, a nice people, relatively crime free. Their major exports are sugar cane, rum, and cricket stars.”
Everyone this close to the equator was a comedian.
“Pretty much got that on the flight over,” I said.
“Get a chance, try the fish fry. How do the knives look?”
“Like I could carve coconuts.”
“That’s probably what they’re for. Not much trouble if you’re caught toting them.”
“For a native.”
“Yeah, you might not pass.”
“Great.”
I told him about the welcoming party and Durgan whistled. “It’s a classic Bajan protection maneuver. Comes from the top.”
“Are my friends safe?’
“Perfectly. Just neutralized. They’ll get a lot of agreeable head bobbing, silly-ass smiles, no answers, and when the authorities have cleaned up things the way they like them, your people will be ushered out the door with even more smiles.”
“Will the local police go after Inoki?”
“Based on the snippet you got from the lady cop, I’d say no. They want to suppress any possibility of a spectacle. They keep the parties apart, they get no explosion. Is Noda with you?”
“They nabbed him too.”
“If you can wait, I can catch the first plane out tomorrow.”
“Can’t. Your people here, what can they do?”
He paused. “Shaun and Orin? They’re long distance. Paper trail, shadowing. No up close and dirty.”
“I was afraid of that,” I said.
CHAPTER 73
I SHOWERED, shaved, dozed, and nabbed my cell phone on the third ring at ten minutes to nine. Outside it was dark.
“You ready, Mr. Jim?”
“Name the place.”
“Come to Oistins Bay Gardens. Everyone know de place. We find you.”
All the clerks at the front desk knew Oistins. So did the first cabbie I asked. In fact, mentioning Oistins was like saying the Champs-Élysées in Paris. You had to be dead not to know it. The taxi shot out to the water’s edge, then veered onto Highway 7 and rolled along the moonlit waters of the Caribbean Sea for ten minutes before exiting the main road for a couple of quick dashes down smaller streets.
I paid the fare and strolled over to Oistins, which turned out to be a giant outdoor fish fry and continuous beach party. Street stalls served snapper, flying fish, and mahimahi, aka dolphin fish. Flames flared from giant barbecues. Clouds of white smoke wafted by. You could get your seafood blackened, grilled, or fried and served with chips, potatoes, slaw, or salad. If you didn’t want fish, you could order shrimp or chicken or chunks of beef. Bottled beer was plentiful and cheap, as was the amber-colored local rum. Syncopated reggae, perhaps the only import, floated over from a stage I couldn’t see. Food in hand, people swayed to the beat.
At a picnic table halfway in, a pencil-thin man of about twenty-three made eye contact and nodded at me once, then sauntered toward the waterfront. I trailed after, ten paces behind. On the beach, moonlight took over. My guide turned right and headed west. Holding hands, couples meandered by in both directions. College kids were chugging down drinks and whooping into the night. There were families at the water’s edge, with young kids frolicking in two inches of warm water.
Underfoot, the sand was soft and white. A bottle of beer dangled from the hand of my guide as he strolled along, just another local enjoying the evening. We walked on without closing the gap between us. The festivities receded. Out on the briny blue, rolling over foot-high swells, a pair of solo kayaks paralleled the shore.
A discreet sign said we were headed toward Turtle Beach. A waist-high retaining wall edged the sand. Where a clutch of tall palms plunged the wall into darkness my guide set down the beer, stretched, and made a wide U-turn, heading back the way we had come.
As he drifted by, he mumbled, “Beer yours, Mr. Jim.”
I rambled by the wall and looped my hand around the bottle. From a safe distance away, I uncapped the beer, took a sip, and casually peered into the foliage. Shades of black over black layered the vegetation under the palms.
“Come sit de wall, Mr. Jim,” a voice from the shadows said.
The sea licked the shore forty feet away. No one was within earshot. I edged a few feet closer but remained standing.
“This will do,” I said. “No one’s around. Why don’t you come out?”
“Good where I be, Mr. Jim.”
“Any particular reason?”
“Everytin’ easy on Barbados. Police find de people easy. Better no one see me wid you.”
“Fair enough.”
“Thank you, Mr. Jim.”
I’d come quite a distance from Oistins but strains of steel drums
reached my ears.
“What have you got for me?”
“Move into de shadow, Mr. Jim.”
“What?”
“Move into de shadow soon.”
I stepped into the shade of the overhanging palms and sat on the wall. From the beach, people would see a silhouette, but nothing more. The beer signaled I was just another happy-go-lucky partier. As my eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, I could distinguish the outline of a man about nine feet back. He was tall and lanky and dark like his partner.
“See you de lovers wid matchin’ reds, Mr. Jim?”
Along the water’s edge maybe fifty yards back, a red-shirted couple strolled toward us.
“Yes.”
“And way back, dere is man walking dog? Den de family? Den man wid hat?”
His night vision was far superior to mine, and mine wasn’t bad. I peered into the night maybe two hundred yards down the shore. I could barely make out the dog. I took his word that the group walking together was a family. I couldn’t tell. Beyond them, a few inches high from my perspective, was another figure. He may or may not have had headgear. He may or may not have been a he.
“Daz de one, Mr. Jim.”
CHAPTER 74
HE was a silver silhouette in the moonlight. A solitary senior out for an evening stroll. Floppy beach hat, beige shorts, and a dark-blue collared shirt. Flip-flops.
As he drew closer, I saw that it was indeed Inoki. I stayed in the shadows, where I remained just another late-night partier. I sipped my beer. I rocked on my perch, luxuriating in the warm tropical evening. When he’d moved some fifty yards beyond my stony seat, I peeled off and followed in his wake. The ocean covered our left flank, a wavy line of tropical vegetation our right.
The Kuang brothers were nowhere in sight.
Away from the hot spots, beach activity tailed off. Foot traffic dwindled to couples, dog walkers, and the stray beachcomber. The gentle rhythm of spent waves lapped the shore. To my right, the retaining wall gave way to an undefined edge of sand and a growing number of cottages and beach homes. Then the quality of the lodging began to improve.
