“There’s no evidence of an affair, is there?” asked Shepherd. “No stash of secret love notes tucked away among the papers in her safe?”
The reference reminded them they were still waiting for the inventory. Maik dialed again. He seemed to tense slightly as he listened to the person on the other end of the line, causing everyone else in the room to sink into silence as they watched him. He stayed on the line a moment longer and then murmured an indistinct comment before shutting off his phone. He turned to address the room. “The safe hasn’t been opened yet. They’ve been waiting for authorization.”
It was significant that no one had come to inform Danny about this in person, as protocol might have required. But looking at his expression now, it was easy to understand why. Volunteers for that sort of mission would have been few and far between.
Shepherd’s face, too, had taken on a dangerously dark hue, and her tone matched it. “What the hell have they been playing at down there? I want to know who’s responsible for this, Sergeant Maik. Names on my desk by the end of the day.”
Around the room, people looked at one another in a mild state of panic, afraid their names might somehow end up on Maik’s list. Only Laraby remained calm. He looked first at Shepherd, and then at the rest of the group.
“Listen, I’m going to put my hand up to this one. New bloke, just in, needs a proctologist to find his head for him the first few days. I think we can all see how something like this could have happened.” Even when he switched gears, there was reasonableness to his tone that kept them on his side. “Still and all, people, this is a murder inquiry we’re dealing with here, a proper, big-time crime.” He slapped the backs of his fingers into the palm of his other hand. “So let’s take it seriously from now on, shall we? We follow up to make sure everything’s been done. Agreed?” He looked at Maik. “You’ve given them the go-ahead to open the safe, I take it?”
Maik nodded.
Laraby turned to Shepherd. “I think we can assume it’ll be a priority now.”
The assembled officers gathered their belongings as Laraby declared the morning briefing to be at an end. And if DCS Shepherd wasn’t entirely over her anger at the debacle with the safe, she could still recognize that in stepping into the firing line for them, DI Laraby had once again done his reputation with the rest of the detective contingent at Saltmarsh Constabulary no harm at all.
16
The distant wail of a howler monkey drifted across the rainforest canopy on the still morning air. Almost as if in answer came the sweet dios te de of a troupe of Chestnut-mandibled Toucans, perched in the snags of a distant banyan tree. From his position at the top of the observation tower, Jejeune trained his bins on the birds, marvelling at their top-heavy, multicoloured bills as they flashed in the bright light. He looked out over the green sea of treetops, stretching as far as the eye could see. The variety of species here was astounding — fruiting trees, Podocarpus, figs, palms, broad-leafed evergreens. Dios te de — God gives to you. Indeed, thought Jejeune.
The sound of boots trudging up the wooden steps forewarned him that his solitary survey of this exotic wonderland was over.
“Toucans in the bare tree over there,” said Jejeune as Traz emerged onto the deck. “Chestnut-mandibled.”
His friend raised his bins, smiling as he watched the birds preening and posing. “Velvet-fronted Euphonia, too. Same tree, seven o’clock.”
Jejeune followed the directions. “Something else just dropped in behind it,” he said animatedly. “Black and blue, warbler-size.”
“Black-faced Dacnis,” said Traz. “Stunning.”
The men traded sightings for some minutes, issuing directions and calling out identifications as the treetops came to life with movement. Sometimes, a bird perched for perfect looks, contentedly preening itself or basking in the warming morning air. Other times, the men received only the briefest of glances as a bird flitted in and away again; a quivering branch the only evidence of its visit.
Here, high above the forest floor, looking out over a vast, unbroken plain of green, with its rich profusion of birdlife, of life itself, Jejeune knew he should let it go. His brother hadn’t intended for anyone to die. Domenic was sure of that. But four people had, and Damian was to blame. Just as Armando said, and Damian had himself even admitted. And yet … who were these guides Armando had spoken of who felt shame when they should only have felt sadness, guilt instead of sorrow? Armando himself? Or someone else? — An expert on hummingbirds, perhaps? A phenomenon, even?
“Yesterday morning, when they were talking about Mariel, what did they say, specifically?”
Traz shrugged. “That they wished she was the leader this time. Nothing against Armando, but, you know, you get used to a guide’s style, what they mean by ‘close,’ or ‘three o clock,’ or ‘the big tree.’ They also said she never missed a hummingbird ID. Ever.”
“Do they know why she stopped guiding?”
“No, but they let it go when Armando approached. It’s not exactly the height of etiquette to talk about how great one trip leader was when you’re on a tour with another.”
Jejeune inclined his head to acknowledge the truth of Traz’s statement. The sound of footsteps on the ladder ended their conversation; though Jejeune wasn’t sure he had anywhere to take it anyway.
“Thea,” said Traz, peering down through the slats that formed the floor of the platform. “Remember, you don’t know anything about any book.”
Thea had selected clothes that fit just a little more snugly today, and Jejeune noted a hint of makeup that hadn’t been present yesterday. She stood beside the men as they briefed her on what was in view. She added her own contributions, quickly establishing that she remembered much of what she had learned birding with her father.
A familiar call had them all spinning as a pair of Blue-and-yellow Macaws came into view, flying low and fast over the treetops. Jejeune’s heart soared at the sight of the birds speeding over the sun-dappled forest, wingtips almost touching, as if they were holding hands.
“I’m sorry we left you behind on the trail yesterday,” Thea said to Jejeune, when the birds had disappeared from view. “I had been hoping to talk to you about your work. I find police investigations fascinating. How do you go about honing in on a suspect, for example? What you look for, that kind of thing?”
Jejeune paused to scan the canopy for movement before answering. “There’s a few things,” he conceded. “There are predictors of behaviour, for example, in some situations.”
“Really?” She leaned in closer. She was on the verge of being rewarded with a view behind the curtain; an offer few people could resist.
Above them, a kettle of Black Vultures inscribed a series of graceful, effortless passes on a cloudless blue canvas. Jejeune checked them carefully, in case a King Vulture was among them. When he lowered his bins, he saw that Traz and Thea had been doing the same.
“We were talking about criminal behaviour,” she reminded him. “Predictors.”
“There is one type of activity in particular that can be a predictor of predatory intentions,” conceded Jejeune. “Not the act itself, of course, but it’s often used as a gateway to escalate things to another level.”
Beside him, Traz stirred uneasily. Domenic was normally deeply reluctant to talk about his work. It seemed inconceivable he was interested in Thea, given how much he cared for Lindy. But there was an undeniable flirtatiousness about the way he was using the secrets of his profession to draw the woman in.
“A gateway?” repeated Thea. She leaned forward again, her eyes shining with interest.
“Gift-giving,” announced Jejeune. ”Obviously, the gift could be just a simple act of generosity. But if so, there would likely be no further reference to it. But a man giving a woman a gift, especially a relative stranger, and then trying to use it as a gateway to a more intimate situation.” Jejeune shook his head sagely. “I’d always advise extreme caution in a situation like that.” He leaned back, bre
aking the seal of intimacy. “Of course, there’s no science to this. It’s just a few casual observations.”
“Fascinating,” said Thea. She picked up her bins. “I should be heading back. I need to see my father before he disappears into his work for the day. But maybe we can chat again at lunch. You too, Traz. See you later?”
“Sure,” he said, forcing a smile that wasn’t really in him. “Later.”
The sound of her departing footsteps had barely died away before Traz turned to his friend. “That was low, man,” he said, shaking his head gravely. “Lower than Lowlie McLow.”
“You gave her a book you had already given to me,” pointed out Jejeune reasonably. “What do you call that?”
“Courtship. Which, by the way, would undoubtedly already be over if I wasn’t working under this handicap.”
“What handicap?”
“This rotten, clumsy English language of yours. If I could romance Thea in Spanish, the two of us would already be riding off into the sunset by now, leaving Armando circling the rotting carcass of his desires like the scavenging chulo he is.”
Jejeune burst out laughing at Traz’s sudden foray into purple prose, and even Traz couldn’t keep a straight face for long.
“Hear that?” Traz said suddenly. “Cicadas. The heat’s coming. The birding’s all but done for the time being.” He stepped aside and let Jejeune go ahead, placing a gentle hand on his friend’s shoulder. “I tell you what, why don’t you go ahead of me down these steep and unstable steps, Inspector Jejeune.”
It seemed an impossible task. Jejeune and Traz had been owling before, many times, and the detective suspected the Spanish group had, too. But surely, none of them had ever faced a prospect as daunting as tracking an owl in such a vast expanse of wilderness. They had taken a thirty-minute Jeep ride up into the hills, tires slipping on the loose gravel of the steep tracks, coating the bushes with a fine patina of dust as they passed. A fugitive moon had made a brief appearance when they arrived on the ridge, bathing the treeline in its milky glow. But it had now disappeared behind a bank of dense cloud, leaving behind a deep, intense darkness that settled all around them as they gathered for their night hike.
Armando distributed flashlights, one for each two people, advising the group to play them at their feet, not too far in front. “Make sure both of you can see the trail two steps ahead when you are in single file. And stay on the path. Night snakes are here, fer-de-lance. Scorpions, too.”
The group set off cautiously, the frail flashlight beams seeming to hold them in this world, almost, preventing them from slipping off into the dark abyss that waited on either side of the path. The soft chorus of insects was broken only by the occasional chirruping of a frog or rustle of a falling leaf.
They had been walking for a long time, and Jejeune had secretly given up hope of success when he heard a call. Armando froze, halting the group in its tracks. He said something in Spanish. “Crested Owl, close,” breathed Thea from behind Jejeune. “He’s asking if it’s okay for him to use a tape to call it. The others said yes.”
Jejeune and Traz murmured their assent. Night was the owl’s natural time to be active, to patrol for food. Another bird calling to contest a territory would not cause it undue stress.
The bird responded to the taped calls, and Armando inched forward before finally stopping beneath a large kapok tree. He played his flashlight up into the branches, and suddenly, staring down at them, was the menacing cat-like face of a Crested Owl. One by one, the group handed off their flashlights to put their bins on the bird and to receive in return the unsettling dead-eyed stare of the formidable night hunter.
Tracking the bird in the dark had been an amazing feat, and Armando graciously accepted the high-fives offered him by the delighted group members. “This was a good bird, but it took us a long time to find him. We should go back now. The Jeeps will be waiting for us.”
Once they were moving again, Armando did not retrace their steps along the path, but veered toward the ridge instead. He stopped and pointed to a narrow walkway of half-round bamboo slats fastened precariously to a rock wall.
“The Jeeps will meet us on the other side of this bridge,” he said. “It is safe, but narrow, and the railing is broken in some places. I will escort each person in turn and then come back for the next one.The footing in places is tricky, so watch where I place my feet and do the same. If we stay close to the rock wall, there will be no problem.”
One member of the group played their light over the bridge. The slats looked slick, and the broken rail leaned out drunkenly over the ravine that plunged down the side of the rock face.
“Remember, slowly and carefully. Close to the rock wall. You will be fine.”
“Armando.” The voice was Jejeune’s. “My flashlight is not working.”
The guide took it from Jejeune and tried it, tapping it gently against his palm when it refused to turn on. Eventually, he gave up. “Okay, he said, pocketing the broken light. “You go last. I will bring a flashlight back with me when I come for you after everyone else has gone over.”
“I’ll stay until the end, too,” said Traz.
“As you wish,” said Armando easily. “Thea, you come with me first.”
The party watched in silence as the twin lights trailed through the darkness over the ravine and eventually disappeared at the far end. One by one, Armando led the party over and returned, until only Traz and Jejeune remained on their side of the bridge. The two men stood unmoving, the darkness like a shroud around them. It was quiet now, not even the sounds of insects reached them. The empty silence seemed to ring in their ears.
“That flashlight is not the same one I had earlier,” said Jejeune quietly. “The other one had a notch in the handle. I handed it off to someone so I could get my bins on the Crested Owl.”
“Who handed it to you again afterward? Was it Armando?”
“I don’t know. It was dark. It could have been.”
They saw the unsteady trail of a flashlight bouncing toward them as Armando returned over the narrow bridge. He extended a hand toward Jejeune.
“Here is your light, Inspector,” he said as he stepped onto the ground again. “Stay exactly here. I advise you not to move around too much. The fer-de-lance, they like this leaf litter.”
“He can come with us. We can both go with you together,” said Traz.
“No.” Armando was firm. “You may slip, miss your footing. We will do it one by one. You first.”
He turned and stepped onto the bridge again, playing his flashlight on the smooth bamboo slats. “Walk at my pace, in my footsteps. Exactly.”
As Armando stepped onto the bridge, Jejeune felt Traz’s gentle shove in the small of his back urging him forward. Jejeune silently stepped onto the bridge behind Armando and followed the guide’s slow, deliberate steps. Traz could hear Armando’s low murmurings of reassurance floating back on the quiet night air, but he knew Jejeune would not answer until they had reached the far side.
Traz heard the guide’s raised voice in the darkness, telling him the men had crossed safely. “You think this is a joke, Inspector? This is a serious situation. Dangerous, still. You must do as I say out here. Always. Muy importante. Muy!” The rest of Armando’s rant dissipated into the still night air. He sounded so angry it crossed Traz’s mind that he might be inclined to leave him to make his own way across the bridge in the darkness. But with Jejeune now safely on the far side, he knew his friend wouldn’t allow that to happen, and in time the thin light of Armando’s flashlight appeared as he approached, sullen and silent, to guide Traz across.
Armando chose a different Jeep from Traz and Jejeune for the ride back, and once he had counted off everyone at the lodge, he disappeared into his room without speaking to either of them.
“He’ll get over it,” said Traz, watching him walk away. “Or not. Either way, there was no way I was letting him leave you as last man up there, JJ. Just you and him crossing that bridge? And no witnesses?”
Traz shook his head, and said it again. “No way.”
17
Along the lane, the leafless trees stood like silent sentinels; totems marking the place where life had so recently been, and was now gone. A low sky hung over the farmlands on each side of the road, the flat light robbing the landscape of its contours. Single blocks of colour, browns and beiges, greys and blacks, swept away to the horizon on either side of the car. It would make a nice composition for one of Robin Oakes’s photographs, thought Danny Maik incongruously. A black-and-white.
Laraby also seemed to find plenty in the landscape to hold his attention, so Maik turned up the music slightly. “Don’t Leave Me This Way” wasn’t a choice Maik could have seen himself making under normal circumstances, but Laraby’s mention of Thelma Houston had started an ear worm the sergeant hadn’t been able to shake. And besides, Danny consoled himself that Henry E. Davis’s scintillating bass lines would not have been out of place in any Motown era.
“Brings back a few memories, I can tell you,” said Laraby. “Me and the wife dancing to this. Donna Summer,” he said suddenly, “she was another one. Was she Motown as well?”
Maik’s wrists thickened as he tightened his grip on the steering wheel. When Special Forces had spent all that money training him to kill with his bare hands, they had probably not envisioned visiting detective inspectors being among his victims.
“No, sir. She was something else. Any thoughts on that other group you were trying to remember?”
Laraby shook his head. “No, but they were massive for a time. Bit of an odd name, I seem to remember that much.”
The appearance of their destination on the crest of the hill prevented Maik from proposing any new candidates. The entrance to Moncrieff’s estate was littered with signs advising that it was private property, and warning against trespassing, but Maik didn’t have much time to consider obeying them. Laraby’s gloved finger pointed directly ahead, and Danny drove between the imposing stone pillars without stopping.
A Shimmer of Hummingbirds Page 11
