I continued, “If Anthony lives, I’m sure he will be interviewed and he may be able to identify his attacker. If he lives. And I’m supposed to keep my eyes and ears open.”
“For what?”
“I guess I’ll know when I see or hear it.”
“That doesn’t sound like much of a plan. What if Anthony doesn’t live? There doesn’t seem to be much hope of solving this unless he comes out of his coma.”
“Realistically, there may not be, but an unexpected break is always possible.” It sounded less than hopeful as the words passed my lips.
“Will you let me know? About Anthony, I mean, let me know about his condition?” Cat’s interest in the well-being of De White Rasta was mildly surprising.
“I didn’t know you cared.”
“He’s your friend, isn’t he?”
The thought had never occurred to me. “I guess he is my friend.”
“Then that makes his well-being important to me,” Cat said with a sincerity usually reserved for declarations of love or innocence. I was touched.
“And I hope that what the deputy commissioner thinks about him being involved in drug trafficking isn’t true, for your sake as well as his,” she continued.
“What do you mean, for my sake?”
“Think about it, Teddy. How would it look for you, the only police and customs official on Anegada, to have a friend who is a drug trafficker?”
“But there is no drug trafficking on Anegada. Anthony can’t be a drug trafficker.” I wanted it to be true but the seed planted by the DC had taken root and grown into dark doubt.
“I am just saying, lover, be careful. People are not always what they seem.” Cat curled against me, turned her green eyes to mine and then down. Her hand moved along the inside of my thigh.
End of conversation.
Chapter Sixteen
In the past, I never devoted much thought to what it took to be a good policeman. Now I understood that, just as an unused machine rusts until it binds and becomes a useless mass of metal, a policeman in a place that lacks crime stops thinking like a policeman. The rituals of police work become a kind of Kabuki theater, elaborate and stylized, but devoid of content. The uniform is worn, but without pride. The patrols are completed, but without vigilance. The policeman appears to be there but in actuality has ceased to be a policeman.
These were my happy thoughts as I stared out at the glass-blue waters of Walkover Set Bay. A quarter mile west of the picturesque crescent of Cow Wreck Bay, it is a lonely place, nondescript and hard to reach, even for Anegada. Why forgo the charms and amenities of Cow Wreck for the narrow, achromatic coral detritus that comprises the beach at Walkover Set? There is no good reason; as a result, it is the most deserted of all the island’s beaches and bays. Ever since I was a small child, Walkover Set Bay is where I have gone to be alone and do my deepest thinking.
It had only been twenty-four hours since I had carried Anthony Wedderburn, to all appearances lifeless, from the Methodist church. It had only been twelve hours since I had pushed my exhausted body away from Cat Wells and walked out the front door of Frangipani House with an exhausted spirit. The last hour had been spent watching the molten orb of the sun rise from the Anegada Trench, thinking about what DC Lane had said and realizing what a poor policeman I was. It had taken two savage crimes to awaken me to the desecration of my beloved Anegada, to open my eyes to the ugly probability that it had become a drug-trafficking waypoint while in my care.
If there was a trafficking connection between Paul Kelliher and Anthony Wedderburn, there had to be another person or persons on Anegada who had been involved in the murder and assault. I decided to rule out Anthony as the murderer. He would not have reported the body if he had done the crime, and no one would have been the wiser. So who associated with both Kelliher and De Rasta? Literally everyone on Anegada knew Anthony from his years on the island.
The same could not be said of Paul Kelliher, who had kept to himself. People knew of him but did not interact with him except at the Cow Wreck Beach Bar. And even there only Belle Lloyd could claim to know him well, if anyone could. She also knew De White Rasta, of course. She occasionally allowed him to sleep in the bar, provided he was out early before customers arrived. And then there was her reaction to me a few days ago, ordering me out of her place.
A return visit with Belle seemed like a good idea, but before the Land Rover could be reversed and turned toward Cow Wreck, the abrasive voice of Pamela Pickering issued from the CB radio.
“Teddy, Teddy, pick up! It Pamela,” she said, as if her distinctive shriek required identification.
“Teddy here. What is it, Pamela?” Irritation probably came through in my voice, though there was no reason to be irritated with Pamela. Perhaps the mere fact she was Pamela was reason enough.
“Teddy, my cousin Constance—you remember my cousin Constance, don’t you, from St. Croix?”
Now I was justified in my irritation. “Yes, Pamela.”
“My cousin Constance, she’s comin’ to visit me today an’ she took the Bomba Charger over an’ when she was gettin’ off at the government dock she see the St. Ursula come in beside the Charger at the dock and it full of mens with big guns and she say they all call for two taxis to pick them up at the dock an’ bring them here, right here to the administration building, an’ they be here any minute because the two taxis pass her on the road in, an’ I thought you need to know right away an’ you need to be here when them mens come an’ I got to tell you I am a little frightened of guns if they bringin’ guns an’ will you come right over?”
“I will come as fast as I can, Pamela,” I interrupted. “I’m on my way from Walkover Set Bay.”
“Walkover Set, what you doin’ way over there? Them mens be here with those guns any second.” Pamela moved quickly to hysteria.
“I’ll be there as soon as I can. Out.” And I did go as fast as the washboard road permitted, banging my head against the car roof twice before hitting the smooth pavement at the edge of The Settlement. Thirty seconds later I wheeled into the gateway of the administration building.
The dusty yard of the administration building had taken on the appearance of a low-budget-film portrayal of a banana republic revolution. Half a dozen shabby characters loitered near the building or in the shade of a tall loblolly tree off to the corner of the parking area.
There were two lounging on the steps, dressed in camouflage fatigues, tan desert boots, and boonie hats, pulled low. A squat man wearing black felony flyers, calf-length black board shorts, a pound of gold chain, and a black ball cap ghettoed at a right angle to his face leaned against the trunk of the loblolly. He was receiving a lecture from a dude sporting the biggest Afro I had seen since the seventies, white pants, pastel T-shirt, and cream jacket rolled at the sleeves—full Miami Vice save for his bare feet.
On the opposite side of the tree, an emaciated man with a midnight-black complexion was a Jamaican tourism advertising campaign gone awry, wearing a black, green, and yellow tie-dyed T-shirt and shorts, with a knit tam of the same colors cocked to the side of his head. He looked on while a mustached man in khaki pants and shirt, black beret, and aviator sunglasses spoke menacingly to Pamela Pickering, punctuating his words with a finger jabbed at her face.
The spectacle might have been comical but for the armament the men carried. Each of the Camo Boys rested an AR-15 on his knees. Board Shorts had a beautifully chromed Mossberg riot gun slung barrel-down across his back. Miami Vice’s gestures revealed a Colt 1911 in a shoulder holster beneath his jacket. Jamaica Man had a Dirty Harry–sized revolver in a low holster on his hip. Over his shoulder, Black Beret carried a mean little HK MP5 on a tactical web sling. Each of the six wore a gold badge clipped to his belt or dangling on a chain from his neck.
Pamela spotted me and called out, “Teddy, these men want to go in your office without you an’ I told ’em—”
“I told you to shut up, chica!” Black Beret snarled. He was the only p
erson I ever saw succeed in cutting Pamela Pickering off in midsentence.
I stepped from the RVIPF Land Rover at the same time a seventh figure emerged from the front door of the police station. Of average height with a shaved head, he wore a black T-shirt with “DEA” in white letters on the front and back, and camo pants tucked into black leather combat boots. Holstered butt-forward on his left hip was an honest-to-God Colt Peacemaker with a white bone handle.
The appearance of the Seventh Man caused an immediate reaction from the others. The Camo Boys jumped up and fell in step behind him, rifles at port arms. Board Shorts went from his relaxed lean on the loblolly to erect attention. Miami Vice stopped midlecture and coolly shifted to face the Seventh Man. Jamaica Man and Black Beret both turned their attention from Pamela to the man striding toward me.
Seven spoke to Black Beret without changing course. “You treat that woman with respect, Chavez, or I’ll come over there and kick your ass.”
Chavez began to puff with macho indignation, thought better of it, and muttered, “Sí, señor.”
“What’s that, Chavez? Speak up and speak English, this ain’t Santo Domingo,” Seven said evenly.
Chavez reddened from ear to ear and shouted, “Yes, sir!”
His little conversation with Chavez had carried Seven to a spot immediately in front of me. He studied me for a moment with flat black eyes. They were predator eyes, the eyes of a shark, without a shred of humanity in them.
“You must be Creque. I’m Agent Rosenblum, US DEA, on loan to Joint Interagency Task Force South. I’m here to clean up your crappy little island.”
If that was supposed to be an introduction, it didn’t generate a warm welcome to Anegada for Agent Rosenblum from me. For a moment, I was too confounded to speak.
“I need to see your office files. Now.” Agent Rosenblum obviously did not subscribe to the homily that more flies are caught with honey than vinegar.
“On whose authority?” I said, regaining enough presence of mind to ask the question.
“On my authority, Shirley, which is all the authority I need. Let’s get moving.”
The Camo Boys leaned forward a bit, expecting action.
“I cannot let you see RVIPF records without my supervisor’s authorization.”
“You mean Deputy Commissioner Lane? Fine, Shirley, you call him right up. He’s the one who invited me and my men to this godforsaken rock,” Rosenblum sneered.
The Camo Boys trailed loosely behind me as I went inside the police station, just close enough to make me feel I was under guard without anyone’s actually saying so. When I entered my office and began to close the door, one of them placed a hand on it and shook his head. Both then stepped outside the door frame, no doubt listening through the opening.
DC Lane was on the line quickly, greeting me with “I guess the officers from JITFS have arrived.”
“Unannounced. With an arsenal. They have all but taken over the police station. They say they are here because you asked them to come. Why was I not told they were coming?” I raged inside, but hearing my own voice, I realized I sounded more hurt than angry.
“Take it easy, Special Constable. You have to understand how the JITFS works. They usually arrive unannounced to all but the highest command structure of the local police agency. They bring in overwhelming force and are heavily armed because they can never be certain what they are walking into and any backup they may need is a long distance away. Their methods are unorthodox but they get results. They have made a huge impact on narcotics trafficking in the eastern Caribbean. And Agent Rosenblum has one of the best arrest records in JITFS.”
“I’ll say their methods are unorthodox,” I said, trying to muster some of the anger I felt into my inflection. “They seem to treat everyone as a criminal suspect, including the administrator and me.”
“Where drug trafficking reaches some of the most isolated islands, local authorities are often complicit.” The deputy commissioner stopped speaking, his words hanging in the air, discomforting as an ex-wife in the front row at a second-marriage wedding ceremony.
“Do you think I am involved in drug trafficking?” My anger was now palpable.
“No one said that. And I do not want to think that, either,” the DC said soothingly. “This is just something that had to be done. So cooperate with Agent Rosenblum and his men. They are to have full access to any records and information. Provide them with transportation. Answer their questions. They may help uncover the source of Anegada’s crime problem.”
I had my answer and my orders but I could not let the DC go without a final question. “Did you call them in?”
“The commissioner, the premier, and the governor made the decision to call in the task force because of the suspicion that the recent crimes on Anegada had their genesis in drug trafficking.” The deputy commissioner’s answer had an air of press conference formality. “Now, Special Constable, you have your orders. Do not keep your guests waiting.”
“Yes, sir. Guests.” Rude guests with guns who think I turn a blind eye to drug trafficking. “Very well, sir.”
One of the Camo Boys must have retrieved Agent Rosenblum when he sensed the conversation was ending. The flat black eyes stared at me from the doorway when I turned away from the phone.
“Cleared things up with the home office, Shirley? Good, now where are your reports on the murder and the assault?”
“My name is not Shirley. It is Special Constable Creque to you.”
“All right, Special Constable Creque, where are the damn reports?” Rosenblum delivered this question in the same tone he had used with Black Beret Chavez a few minutes before.
“I have no written reports on either incident. My reports were verbal to Deputy Commissioner Lane and Inspector Stoutt. I assume Inspector Stoutt prepared written reports as he is the investigating officer assigned to the cases.”
“Do you have any field notes, witness statements, or random thoughts jotted on the back of cocktail napkins, Special Constable?”
“No.”
“You can write, can’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Well, do you have any written reports in connection with any of your police work here, Special Constable Creque?” Agent Rosenblum spat the title and name out like he was expelling a vile-tasting insect that had flown into his mouth.
“I have my quarterly crime data reports to Deputy Commissioner Lane.”
“Where?”
I gestured to the gray steel file cabinet in the corner. “Top drawer.”
“Okay, Special Constable Creque, take a walk, but don’t go far. I’ll call you if I need anything,” Rosenblum said, pulling open the drawer of the file cabinet.
Chapter Seventeen
Pamela Pickering stood shaking and crying silently in the black shade of the loblolly. Rosenblum’s men had all moved away from her, loitering near the door to listen to Rosenblum belittle me rather than watching her sniffle. They parted like a pack of hungry curs as I emerged, barely giving room for me to pass. I walked to Pamela and put my arm around her shoulder to comfort her. It was the first time I could remember feeling anything toward her other than irritation. I guess Agent Rosenblum just brought out the best in people.
Two seconds later one of the Camo Boys popped out the door and said, “Chief wants to see all of us inside except Chavez. Chavez, you’re supposed to post up here and keep our hosts company.”
“Tengo todos los trabajos de mierda,” Chavez griped.
“Maybe you wouldn’t always get the shitty jobs if you didn’t have a shitty attitude, mon,” laughed Jamaica Man.
Chavez glared the glare of the rightfully accused convinced of his own blameless innocence. While his compatriots filed inside, he spat on the ground and settled a malevolent eye on Pamela and me. Pamela whimpered and sank down to her knees. I stood next to where she knelt on the hard stone, wondering how these people could call themselves policemen.
After half an hour, Jamaica Man reappeare
d in the doorway and beckoned me inside with a curt nod of his bushy Afro. I was ushered into my own office to find Agent Rosenblum sitting behind my desk, the thin file of my quarterly crime reports open before him.
“You are one helluva lawman, Special Constable Creque. Twenty years of reports to the boss showing no crime on this shitbox. You must be frigging Dirty Harry, John Wayne, and Superman all rolled into one.”
“Anegada is a quiet place, Agent Rosenblum.” You nasty, sarcastic asshole, I wanted to say, but didn’t. Best to take his guff, play it straight, and not give him a reason to be more hostile to me than he already was. As if it were possible for him to be more hostile.
“I’ll tell you what I think, Special Constable Creque. I think no place, no matter how quiet, how wonderful, how just-wiped-its-ass-with-a-silk-handkerchief clean it is, has no crime for twenty years. I think there are no reports of crime because if there was crime there might be a real cop posted out here in your barnyard paradise. I think a quiet place without a lot of scrutiny and a friendly local cop is just what a drug-trafficking operation needs. I think you are a dirty little cop, Special Constable Creque, except you aren’t enough of a cop to be called a cop. No, come to think of it, you are just dirty.” Rosenblum smiled sweetly. “That is what I think.”
Play it straight. Don’t lose your temper. The mantra of those words resonated inside my head, finally defeating the anger that rose in my chest. “While every island in your world is a crime-ridden drug haven, and every local policeman is corrupt, that isn’t true of Anegada or of me.”
“Well, that certainly persuades me, Special Constable Creque. I’ll just put those impure thoughts right out of my mind,” Rosenblum said, waiting for me to rise to the bait.
I just stared at him, and he unflinchingly stared back, fixing his soulless eyes on me. We remained locked on each other that way for what seemed like an hour, and was probably a minute, before Agent Rosenblum growled, “Fine. Take me to where this Kelliher’s body was found.”
Sun, Sand, Murder Page 10
