Barbara said, “I’ve called for a car to take me to Negril.”
“Already?”
She nodded.
Before finally falling asleep—note to pharmacologists: Rigorous, gleeful, it’s-been-a-long-time sex reduces the effects of Ama Aji—we had talked some more about the delicate matters that lay ahead that day. It had put a bit of a damper on the afterglow.
“You sure you don’t want to hang out here until . . .”
“Until what? Until word comes that there’s been another bomb and this time it was marked for you? Or another shooting? No, Zack, I flew here hoping that this mess would be straightened out and that we might spend some time together. I don’t want to hang out here, just waiting and dreading.”
“So you’ll hang out somewhere else, waiting and dreading.”
“I prefer Tensing Pen. It’s quiet. The yoga pavilion is perched right above the sea. I’ll be staying in Cove Cottage,” she said. “Should you survive.”
“Nothing like cutting to the quick,” I said.
She shrugged.
I said, “Everything’s going to be OK, baby.”
She finished her tea. She folded her napkin. She squared it on the table.
She said, “I cannot tell you not to do this.”
“No,” I said. “You cannot.”
“Even if it is tearing at me, tearing at me worse than anything has ever torn at me before?”
“Even if.”
“And if I were to insist that you not do it?”
“That would change things.”
“Between us?”
“Yes,” I said. “Between us.”
“Because neither of us has ever made demands?”
“Because that,” I said.
“Is that what it is then, what makes it work, the never-demanding, the always-trusting, the ever-hopeful?”
“I think so, yes. That and the fact that you’re great in the sack.”
Barbara smiled.
She said, “‘A madness most discreet, a choking gall and a preserving sweet . . .’”
“Shakespeare?” I said.
“Someone,” she said. “Someone who knew.”
She stood. We kissed. We went inside.
77
Later, after the car came and took Barbara away, I tidied the cottage and tried to figure out what I should wear. Big decision. It was Game Day.
I went through my suitcase, put on shorts, put on pants, nothing worked. Everything was too tight and made me feel constricted.
Back when I was playing ball, tight was good when it came to a uniform. Made you look sleek and cool. Unless, of course, you were a lineman, in which case it just made you look even more overgrown and thuggish.
I needed something loose, something that would give me freedom of movement. Just in case. Just in case of what, I wasn’t sure. But if I was going down, then I was going down in comfort.
I stepped next door to Monk’s cottage, rummaged through his closet. A pair of khakis hung from a knob on the door. I put them on. Baggy but not too baggy. I could wear them and look semi-presentable. Or, if things got bad, I could run in them. I am brave when I need to be brave, but I am not stupid. Running should always be an option.
I put on running shoes and a polo, an orange one. Got the keys to the Mercedes. Put them in a pocket of the khakis. Felt something else in the pocket—a slip of paper. Pulled it out. A rumpled receipt. I unfolded it and looked at it.
The receipt was handwritten and it was from Darwin’s Stationery in Mo Bay. There had been a single purchase—one Ideal Executive Daybook. Cost—440 Jamaican dollars. I noted the date at the top of the receipt—September 4th. The day before I arrived in Jamaica.
The green backpack was sitting on the kitchen counter. I unzipped it and pulled out Monk’s Ideal Executive Daybook. I flipped back to the earliest entry, June 14, about the time Monk started working for Darcy Whitehall. It was written in neat block letters: “D.W. 11 a.m.”
The rest of the entries were written in the same neat hand and were just as innocuous, noting other meetings with Whitehall, through June, July, and August. Nothing really stood out until the two last entries—September 4th, the one that ultimately led me to Martha Brae and the home of Ida Freeman, Kenya Oompong’s mother; and the entry on September 4th that listed the Dover Street address of Equinox Properties.
But according to the receipt I was holding, Monk hadn’t bought the daybook until September 4th. Had he faked the earlier entries? Apparently. But why?
I was still mulling it over when I arrived at Darcy Whitehall’s house. Alan was sitting in the kitchen with Otee, drinking coffee and watching the news on TV.
I said, “Anything about Kenya Oompong?”
“She turned herself in early this morning,” said Alan. “She’s in jail with her mother.”
“She make a statement?”
Alan shook his head.
“Police haven’t let her,” he said. “Must be driving her crazy.”
Otee said, “Where is Boggy?”
“He stayed in Camp Hill,” I said, then told them about seeing Scotty Connigan leaving Cuddy Banks’ house and finding the bodies on the floor.
“You a damn fool, go up Camp Hill without no gun, mon,” said Otee. “You lucky you be standing here alive. When you going back dere to get Boggy?”
“Well, I was hoping you might do me a favor and go get him for me. I want to be here if there’s any phone calls.”
“Yah, dat be alright, mon. I go now,” said Otee, standing from the table. “We gonna need all us together when dis shit start to fly.”
I looked at Alan.
“Where’s your father?”
“Still a little early for him yet,” said Alan. “He’ll make a showing soon.”
I said, “They told him they’d call first thing in the morning.”
“Only call come in so far be from dat JCP man,” said Otee. “Dunwood his name.”
“Dunwood called here?”
“Yah, mon. Maybe ten minutes ago.” Otee grabbed a notepad from the table and handed it to me. “Said you to call him at dis numbah. He sound vexed.”
“Vexed?”
“Yah, he agitated, mon.”
I stepped to the phone and dialed Dunwood’s number. He answered on the first ring. And yes, he did sound vexed.
“I want you to meet me at the Bird’s Nest,” he said. “Now.”
“Sorry, I really don’t have time to sit down and eat,” I said, realizing as I said them that such words had never before spilled from my mouth.
“This isn’t about sitting down and eating,” he said. “It’s about a murder. Two of them, as a matter of fact.”
I said, “Look, if you’re talking about what happened up in Camp Hill, I didn’t have anything to do with that.”
There was a long silence on Dunwood’s end.
I said, “Is that what you’re talking about?”
“No,” said Dunwood. “What happened in Camp Hill?”
This time the long silence was on my end. I didn’t want to tell Dunwood what had happened because I didn’t want the police to come swooping down on Scotty Connigan. At least not yet, or at least not until I needed them. Which I was hoping I wouldn’t because that would throw a big wrench in everything—especially in everything having to do with money—and likely bring down the roof on Darcy Whitehall. But if Dunwood didn’t know about the murders in Camp Hill, then what murders was he talking about?
“Chasteen?”
“Yeah.”
“Get down here,” he said, and hung up.
78
The bodies had already been removed from the car and hauled away by the time I arrived at the Bird’s Nest. The parking lot swarmed with police, along with a contingent of guys in suits and shades who looked like Americans and fit the Fed profile.
Most of the activity centered around the car—a white BMW.
Eustace Dunwood spotted me as I pulled in and waved me to a parking spot awa
y from the crowd. I got out and leaned against the Mercedes as he approached.
“Thanks for coming,” he said.
“You didn’t make it sound as if I had a choice,” I said. “Mind telling me what’s going on?”
“Manager noticed the car when he came to open up, about two hours ago,” said Dunwood. “Best guess is it happened just after midnight. That’s when a waitress saw them leaving.”
“Saw who leaving?”
Dunwood took a moment to answer, studying me. He pulled out a notepad and read from it: “James C. Skingle and Laurance S. Connigan.”
“Holy shit,” I said.
Dunwood didn’t say anything. He kept studying me.
I said, “Why didn’t you tell me that over the phone?”
“Hasn’t been released to the public yet. Didn’t want it getting out,” he said. “But mostly I wanted to see how you took the news.”
“Read my face,” I said. “I’m surprised. Shocked is more like it. How did it happen?”
Dunwood didn’t answer. He flipped through his notepad.
“According to a Mrs. Janeese Simmes—Mr. Skingle’s secretary—you threatened Mr. Skingle with bodily injury three or four days ago. Is that right?”
“Oh, jeez. Is that what this is about?”
“She also said you came to his office and she overheard what sounded like an argument between the two of you. Is this true?”
“No, I didn’t threaten Skingle. All I did was mention to his secretary . . . what’s her name?”
“Mrs. Simmes.”
“I told Mrs. Simmes that if Skingle wouldn’t make time to see me then I was going to whack him in the head with a two-by-four, but . . .” I stopped. It did kinda sound like a threat. “That’s not how he died, is it?”
“No,” said Dunwood. “It was a pistol shot to the back of the head. A .22 caliber.”
“Same with Connigan?”
“Side of the head. We think the shooter must have gone for Mr. Skingle first and Mr. Connigan was turning around when he was shot. We suspect the shooter must have gained entry to the car and surprised them.”
“You don’t honestly think I was the shooter, do you?”
“No, but I am interested in why you and Mr. Skingle might have had an argument. I’m interested in anything that might shed some more light on this.”
I didn’t say anything. The fact that Skingle and Connigan were dead was coming at me from so far out of the blue that I didn’t want to blurt out something that I’d later regret. Such as telling Dunwood that the two of them had been trying to extort five million dollars from Darcy Whitehall.
Part of me was relieved. I no longer had to worry about how I was going to deliver the money, pull some kind of double cross on Skingle and Connigan so Cumbaa could nab them and lock them up, and then get the money back. And getting the money back had been essential, since it would have been Freddie Arzghanian’s money and that was not something to lose. There were only a zillion details about the whole thing that we hadn’t worked out, and that had made it dangerous. I was relieved that the danger side of it was now gone.
The other part of me was confounded.
“Any idea who killed them?”
“Couple of thoughts on that front,” said Dunwood. “Connigan was DEA so there’s the possibility it could be drug-related. The other thought is that it was the NPU.”
“The NPU? Why them?”
“Retaliation for arresting Kenya Oompong and her mother. If you remember, it was Jay Skingle who led the charge to get us to crack down on the NPU.”
“You favor one over the other?”
“The garrison drug lords aren’t shy about shooting each other because no one really cares about how many of them die. Killing Skingle and Connigan though, two Americans, that would bring down more heat on them than it was worth. They wouldn’t want any part of it,” said Dunwood. “So me, I’d put it on the NPU. Kenya Oompong might not be tied directly to it, but with all her other problems—stolen guns, the bomb-making material—she’ll be out of commission for a while.”
“No third-party possibilities?”
Dunwood shook his head, said, “No, what about you? Any thoughts on it?”
“No,” I said, although I had thoughts aplenty.
Dunwood’s colleagues called for him from across the parking lot. Before he stepped away, he reached into a pocket, pulled out a plastic evidence bag, and handed it to me. Monk’s Super Bowl ring, the one Dunwood’s men had found at the airport.
“Investigators are finished with it,” Dunwood said. “Thought his family would like it back.”
“Appreciate it,” I said.
I got into the Mercedes. I put the key in the ignition, and then I just sat there. I pictured this: Ramin the Gentle rising up in the backseat of the BMW, just like he’d risen up behind me, and putting a pistol to the heads of Skingle and Connigan.
Was that the way it had happened? Had Freddie Arzghanian trumped everyone? Had he figured out a way to cut to the chase—simple, straightforward, problem solved, no outlay of cash?
I thought about how that might have worked. Or not.
Then I opened the evidence bag and took out Monk’s Super Bowl ring, held it in the palm of my hand. It seemed none the worse for wear—hardly scuffed, a heavy thing, diamonds sparkling. I picked it up, resisted the temptation to slip it on my finger, just to see how it might feel to wear a Super Bowl ring. I admired it, so bright and shiny; the inside of the band, smooth and unblemished.
I kept looking at it.
The cell phone was finishing its third ring before it dawned on me to answer it. It was still on the floor of the Mercedes, where I’d left it the day before. The voice on the other end was subdued. Hard to believe it belonged to Lanny Cumbaa.
“Get the money,” he said.
“What are you talking about?”
“The five million, Zack. Get it.”
“But Skingle and Connigan, someone killed them.”
“Yes, I know.”
“But . . .”
“Don’t argue, Zack. Just get the money. Or else I’m a dead man, too.”
79
For the record, five million U.S. dollars in one-hundred-dollar bills weighs slightly more than one hundred ten pounds and can be divided easily between two large canvas duffel bags that will fit neatly in the trunk of a big black Mercedes.
We were standing in a narrow alley beside Freddie Arzghanian’s office. Ramin and Hamil had just finished the packing and the loading.
Freddie Arzghanian said, “I must tell you, yes, I did consider killing the two of them, Skingle and Connigan, but I feared it would create more problems with your government than it was worth. Now, though, I have some regret, especially since I am risking all this.”
He gestured to the canvas duffels. I closed the trunk.
“You have to pay to play,” I said.
“Yes, I suppose. A most interesting game,” he said. “And you are quite certain of what you tell me?”
I nodded.
“It is the only way the pieces fit,” I said.
“The only way they fit for you, perhaps. For me, I still could just walk away.”
“And leave two innocent people taking the blame?”
“Not my concern,” said Arzghanian. “Besides, how do you know they are innocent?”
“Because I know Scotty Connigan planted that stuff under Ida Freeman’s house. Just as I know he hired Cuddy Banks to wreak havoc and frame the NPU. Connigan and Skingle might be dead, but Kenya Oompong and her mother are taking the fall for them.”
Arzghanian said, “Plus, there is the matter of your friend, Monk DeVane.”
“Yes,” I said. “There’s that.”
“You wish to resolve it.”
“Once and for all.”
Arzghanian’s thin lips curled into a smile that wasn’t really a smile.
He said, “And if you are lucky enough to walk away, then . . .”
“Then we
’ll discuss that when it happens.”
“Not if.”
“Hell no, not if,” I said. “You’ll be seeing me again.”
“Because there is the matter of the money.”
“Yes,” I said. “There’s that.”
The cell phone rang. I answered. It was Cumbaa. He told me the route to follow.
“That will get you to the intersection of the C-3 and Dunkirk Road. Should take about twenty minutes. I’ll call again then,” Cumbaa said. “And, Zack, remember. Just you. Don’t bring anyone else. That will only make things worse.”
I opened the driver’s door on the Mercedes.
“No one follows me,” I told Arzghanian.
He shrugged.
“As you say,” he said.
80
I pulled out of the alley and drove north on Dover Street. The route Cumbaa had given me led into the hills east of Mo Bay and toward the mountains. The further I went the more the road twisted and turned. I watched the rearview mirror. The road curlicued behind me, and when I hit the top of a hill and looked back I could see all the way down the road for the better part of a half mile.
A road like that, it’s hard to follow someone without being seen. Ramin and Hamil weren’t doing a bad job of it. They were hanging back in the white Range Rover as far as they could without chancing me making a turn and them not spotting it.
I knew they’d be back there. I knew Freddie Arzghanian wasn’t about to give me all that money and let me go it alone. It had to be what it had to be. All we could do was see what happened next.
It was a lot like playing football. Especially defense, my side of the game. You huddled, made your best guess, and set your formation. Then out came the other side with its secret plan, trying to score, reading what you had going, maybe juking things around, calling an audible if they perceived a weakness. Then backs went in motion and you were countering that, stunting and shifting, maybe showing a blitz.
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