He noticed no road signs or distinguishing landmarks along the way, just flocks of white egrets dotting the flat, scrubby landscape and a few tin-roofed shacks with twisted TV antennae. Feeling lost was undoubtedly part of the island charm for tourists on scooters with no particular destination, but for a man peering out the window from the back of a police car it was just added anxiety.
At the fork in the road was a wood arrow-shaped sign nailed to a telephone pole that read, ST. JOHNS 3 KM.
“St. Johns,” said Mike. “Funny, I just came from San Juan.”
Dewberry glanced at the sign, then said dryly, “He got around.” They rode the rest of the way in silence.
The police headquarters was downtown, up the hill and away from the more touristy shopping sections along the waterfront. Dewberry escorted him directly to the interrogation room, an interior beige office with a small Formica table and four metal chairs. The walls were bare—no pictures, no clock. With the door closed and blinds pulled shut, it was the kind of room where, after a few hours, discerning the time of day was purely a matter of taking the interrogator’s word for it.
Mike sat on one side of the rectangular table. Dewberry sat across from him, sipping hot tea from a Styrofoam cup. For more than an hour he peppered him with questions that could easily have been asked at the airport or in the car coming over, which left Mike with the impression that he was merely softening him up for the real interrogator. Just before five o’clock entered a lanky man in his early forties who, for a cop, spoke with a very proper English accent.
“Lieutenant Brenford A. V. Scot,” he said stiffly, offering his hand.
Mike shook his hand, thinking he looked very much like a Brenford A. V. Scot, or at least the West Indian version thereof. He was formal and polite, with a distinct air of conceit. His thick black hair was parted on the side, and he had an affected way of brushing the long curls from his eyes every minute or so. The hairstyle seemed a bit young for a man his age, though his dark, handsome face was on the boyish side. He sat beside Dewberry, directly across the table from Mike.
“This can be a very short meeting,” said Scot. “Or it can be a very long meeting. It’s up to you, Mr. Posten.”
Mike sighed. Scot seemed to be expecting some kind of witty rejoinder, but the energy wasn’t there.
“With the aid of Interpol,” the young lieutenant continued, “it has come to our attention that you’ve written a rather smashing collection of articles about a certain serial killer. As well, we understand that some unsavory accusations have been levied against you publicly, to the effect that you’ve paid goodly sums of money to a confidential informant. True or not, we know for a fact that you did indeed deposit two hundred and fifty thousand dollars into a Citibank account for a gentleman named Ernest Gill. And of course we now know that a gentleman using the name Eric Venters killed two security guards while trying to withdraw those very same funds from the Charter Bank here in Antigua.”
Mike was stone-faced, confirming nothing.
“Now,” Scot continued, “let me tell you what we believe. We believe Eric Venters is Ernest Gill. We believe Ernest Gill is your informant.” He leaned forward on the table, his expression very serious. “And we believe you will tell us how to find him.”
Mike rubbed his tired face, fighting off a yawn. “Believe whatever you like. But I can’t tell you who my informant is, and I can’t tell you how to find him.”
Scot smiled politely, but without a trace of sincerity. “Please, don’t misunderstand us, old boy. We’re not asking you to confess to having paid a confidential source. We simply wish to know his identity.”
“I’m not refusing to tell you. I just don’t know who or where he is.”
Scot raised an eyebrow, emphasizing his skepticism. “That’s terribly convenient, isn’t it, Mr. Posten.”
“I’m not playing games.”
“Neither are we,” said Scot.
Dewberry rose slowly and leaned across the table, glaring at Mike. “I know your type,” he said in a low, angry tone. “One of those cocky, self-righteous American journalists who like to get their face on the evening news by going to jail to protect the identity of their sources. Well, you’d bloody well not pull those stunts with us.”
Mike returned the glare, sizing up his opponent. Dewberry seemed to be waiting for him to make a false move, just looking for an excuse to blow a gasket. Mike sensed that this was one cop who’d been skewered by a reporter or two.
Scot leaned forward, as if to separate the two of them, reeling his partner back into his chair. “What Detective Dewberry is trying to say, Mr. Posten, is that in Antigua it isn’t unheard of for journalists to land in jail. In point of fact, it was Detective Dewberry who personally arrested the editor and proprietor of a newspaper called the Outlet back in 1985 for a positively libelous article that accused our own government of kidnapping a child and whatnot. The arrest caused quite the international stir—perhaps you even heard of it. Eventually, the British House of Lords overturned the jail term. However, I don’t suppose you’d care to lodge here in one of our cells until your barrister can press your appeal all the way to England. Would you, Mr. Posten.”
Mike rolled in his seat, taking on a more aggressive posture. “Like I said, Lieutenant. I can’t reveal my source, because I don’t know who he is. But I will say this. Your very eloquent speech, complete with legal precedent, has convinced me of one thing.”
Scot smiled with his eyes, as if expecting a sporting concession of defeat from a worthy opponent. “What’s that, old boy?”
Mike looked him straight in the eye. “Even if his name were tattooed on my forehead, you’d be the last to find it.”
The conciliatory smirk ran from his face, and his face flushed red with indignation. “We’ll see about that.” He glared at Mike, then glanced at Dewberry. “Looks like we have ourselves a guest. Lock him up.”
The detective was quickly at Mike’s side, pulling him up from his chair and using more force than necessary to cuff his hands behind his back. Mike started to resist, then stopped himself and just took the pain.
“Where do you want him?” he asked the lieutenant.
Scot was still seated at the table. He looked up, paused for a moment, then narrowed his eyes. “You know where to put him.”
Mike bristled at the way they exchanged glances, like two clever insiders savoring the same thought. He didn’t give them the satisfaction, however, of asking the obvious question.
“I’d like to call my wife,” said Mike.
Dewberry ignored the request, then shoved him out the door. “Straight ahead,” he barked. He trailed right behind Mike down the hall, pushing him repeatedly on the back and shoulders, until they reached an old elevator with a metal, accordion-style gate.
“Into the lift.”
The two men entered and stood shoulder to shoulder as Dewberry yanked the gate shut and hit the button. There was a loud hum but little sense of movement. Mike was beginning to wonder whether they’d actually left the ground when they finally jerked to a halt on the second floor. The detective pulled back the gate and pushed him out.
With his back to the lift, Mike was surrounded by thick black bars. Dewberry prodded him forward, and their footsteps echoed off the smooth cement floor. It reminded him of a tour he’d taken of Alcatraz, except the tropical air was stale and hot. A cockroach scampered through bars, into the darkness. They stopped at the metal gate that led to the cellblock, and Dewberry removed the handcuffs.
An armed guard sat on the other side of the bars, enclosed in his own protective cage behind a panel of levers and controls. He greeted the detective with a familiar smile, then pulled a black lever. A metal tray appeared through the bars, containing a dark blue prison uniform and beach thongs.
“Put those on,” said Dewberry. “Your things go in the tray.”
Mike emptied his pockets and stripped down to his underwear, putting everything in the tray. The uniform was a little small,
and it smelled like someone had been sick in it. Dewberry slapped the metal cuffs back on his wrists. The guard retrieved his belongings, then pulled another lever. The main iron gate slid open, clanking like a rickety old roller coaster.
Mike was staring straight down a dimly lit corridor. He counted twenty cells, ten on each side. Each was about the size of a typical walk-in closet. It was too dark to see inside all of them, but the nearest one seemed to be housing at least four prisoners.
“We’re putting him with Watts,” said the detective to the guard.
The two men exchanged that same curious look he’d seen Scot give Dewberry a few minutes ago.
“Away from the bars!” the guard shouted down the hall. He pushed a button on his panel, and a bell rang out.
A low rumble filled the cellblock. In the dim lighting, Mike could see only shadows as the prisoners shuffled toward the rear of their cells. When the rumbling stopped, Dewberry nudged him from behind. Together, they started down the hall.
“Eyes straight ahead,” said Dewberry.
Mike caught a glimpse of a few prisoners as they passed each cell. One with long dreadlocks. Another naked from the waist up, covered with tattoos, another with arms like tree stumps. He felt like jail was their fraternity and they couldn’t wait to initiate him. A dryness filled his throat as he reached the end of the hall. They’d passed all twenty cells, but he had yet to meet his cellmate.
“So, which one is Watts?” he asked finally.
Dewberry nodded toward the dark gray wall—but it wasn’t the wall, Mike suddenly realized. It was a solid metal door fitted right into the wall. There was an open slot in the middle just big enough for a dinner tray. Through it, Mike could see only darkness.
Dewberry gave the door a swift kick. A chilling shriek came from within, something primal, beginning with a piercing scream and ending with a howl.
“That’s Watts,” he said with a smirk.
Another scream, and Mike cringed. It didn’t sound human. “This is pointless, you know. You could put me in there with Charles Manson and I still wouldn’t be able to come up with the name of my informant. I really don’t know.”
“Sure you don’t,” he said as he pushed him toward the door. “And if you’re still saying that in the morning, we might even believe you.”
Chapter 40
lieutenant Scot was in his office early that morning, sitting at his desk, reviewing a signed statement taken from one of the employees of the Charter Bank. A crumbled blueberry muffin lay on a napkin to his right, beside an empty teacup and a mountain of paperwork spilling out of his in box. Lines of fatigue rimmed his eyes, but his crisp white shirt was buttoned to the wrists, and his tie was straight and knotted snugly, fit for Sunday services.
His assistant poked her head through the open doorway. “An American woman is here for Michael Posten,” she said in a soft, unintrusive voice.
Scot looked up curiously from his desk. “His wife?”
“No. She says she’s with the FBI.”
“The FBI? Here?” He froze for a moment, then jumped forward in his chair, tossing the muffin wrapper in the trash, stuffing the dirty teacup in a drawer, straightening the papers atop his desk.
His assistant rolled her eyes, as if she’d seen her image-conscious boss in his neatnik mode before. “I’ll send her in.”
“Yes, do,” he said, frantically running a hand through his hair. “And bring Dewberry round as well.”
Detective Dewberry arrived first, and the two men greeted Victoria with gracious smiles. She was wearing a gray business suit that looked a little warm for the islands, but it seemed befitting of the FBI. Eduardo Ortega, a handsome young Latin agent from the Miami Field Office, was standing at her side. After quick introductions she declined the tea and sat on the sofa beneath the window, with Ortega still at her side. Dewberry took the Old English oak chair facing the desk.
“I must say,” said Scot from behind his desk. “I’m a bit surprised to see someone from the FBI.”
“Well, you did request our assistance.”
“We did?” he said, glancing at his partner.
“Uh, yes,” said Dewberry. “In a manner of speaking. You can imagine our excitement, miss, upon discovering two distinct sets of fingerprints for Mr. Venters at the bank. Unfortunately, the data bank at Interpol turned up nothing a-tall. Since he was a Yank, we were hoping the FBI data bank might provide a match.” He glanced at Scot, as if he were speaking more for his benefit than Victoria’s.
She smiled thinly, instantly aware of who was really in charge here. “Well,” she said, “you gentlemen have yourselves a match.”
“Splendid!” Scot was smiling widely, but the grin soon faded. “But…why did you and Mr. Ortega have to come all the way to Antigua to tell us?”
“Because there’s a rub,” she said. “I’m authorized to deliver the results to you on one condition only.”
“Which is…?” he said cautiously.
“You give us custody of Michael Posten.”
Scot shifted uneasily. “How did you even know we had him?”
“That’s really none of your concern, is it?”
“Why do you want him?” Dewberry interjected.
“We believe he may have assisted in structuring wire transfers to offshore banks in violation of U.S. currency laws.”
Scot leaned back in his chair, thinking. “Truth be told, the only reason we were holding Mr. Posten was in the hope that he’d tell us who Mr. Venters is. If the FBI will tell us whose fingerprints we have, I suppose we no longer need him.”
Dewberry gave him a subtle nod, as if approving his analysis.
“Then I can have him?” said Victoria.
“Certainly,” the lieutenant said with a shrug. “Just show us your bounty.”
Victoria shot him a curious look.
“The fingerprints,” he explained, nervous with embarrassment.
Victoria confirmed their agreement with a firm nod, then opened her briefcase and removed a file. “As you say, the fingerprints do belong to an American citizen. A convicted felon, in fact.” She rose from her seat and laid the open file on the detective’s desk.
The Antiguans eagerly leaned forward, inspecting it with interest.
“His name is Curt Rollins.”
The door to isolation cell number two opened with a clank and a thud. At the first crack of light, Mike jumped up in the darkness from his place in the corner.
The howling resumed.
Watts was shirtless and barefooted, wearing only dark prison pants that fit loosely like pajamas. His ragged beard and a matted coat of thick body hair made it impossible to guess his age, somewhere between twenty-five and forty-five. He had a habit of using feces like a styling gel, rubbing it through his long hair, making it stand on end—straight up, like a man who’d stuck his finger in a light socket. Mike figured that was the reason they called him “Watts.” His arms and shoulders were broad and muscular, but his belly protruded grossly over his belt line. A thick pink scar ran nearly the entire length of his right arm, presumably from a knife fight. Mike noticed two tattoos. The one on his arm read, NO LIFE LIKE LOW LIFE. The other was centered on his forehead—a third eye.
As the door opened, Watts jumped forward, then snapped back like a dog at the end of its leash. His waist and ankles were chained to the wall, allowing him only a few feet of movement.
Mike squinted as his pupils adjusted to the light. His clothes were splattered with wet brown stains. Wads of wet toilet paper dotted the walls around him. The cell reeked of strong disinfectant and human waste.
Dewberry stood in the doorway, covering his mouth to contain his laughter. “I see Mr. Watts has emptied the latrine for us again, one handful at a time. His aim’s improving a mite, as well.”
Mike glared at him, completely nonplussed. “Get me out of here. Now.”
Watts growled and swung his arms like a bear, but the chains kept him safely on the other side of the cell.
> “You’re a lucky chap, Posten. Tonight we were going to unchain your cellmate.”
“What made you change your mind? Amnesty International?”
“The FBI. They’ve come to arrest you.”
His mind raced. It had to be Victoria—but arrested?
The detective grabbed his arm and led him from the cell down the hall to the showers. He waited as Mike quickly showered and put his street clothes back on. Dewberry then led him through the gate, past the guard and down the prehistoric elevator. The door opened on the first floor, where Victoria was waiting beside a tall Latin gentleman who Mike guessed was also an FBI agent. Mike was about to say something, but she quickly cut him off.
“Is this Posten?” she said to Dewberry.
Mike looked confused at first, but in half a second he realized she was signaling to him. The supposed arrest still had him leery, but whatever her plan was, it had to be better than another night with Watts.
“He’s all yours,” said Dewberry.
Victoria watched as the detective removed the old metal handcuffs. Once they were off, she made a big show of grabbing his arm and securing both hands behind his back with her plastic flex-cuffs. She cinched them up extra tightly, pinching his wrists.
“Oww!” He glanced at her sharply, as if to say, “You did that on purpose.”
She smiled with her eyes, then said sternly, “Don’t try anything funny, Posten.”
She thanked Dewberry profusely, then quickly pushed her prisoner through the lobby and out the front door before anyone had the chance to change their mind. She had Mike’s right arm, Agent Ortega had the left. They were still pushing their prisoner when they hit the cracked and busy sidewalks of downtown St. Johns. Victoria steered the threesome in and out of pedestrians and around the ornate wrought-iron posts that supported the old Georgian-style balconies hanging overhead. A block away from the station, she yanked him to an abrupt halt at the BMW parked at the curb.
The Informant Page 23
