by Kathy Brandt
“Possible, but I don’t think so,” he said, “and I think I’m a pretty good judge of character. After all, I’ve got you figured out.”
“You think so?” I said.
“Sure,” he said. “An absolutely stunning woman who returns men’s stares with a ‘get real’ gaze. Doesn’t like to let anyone get too close or take care of her. Someday, though, I hope you’ll let me take care of you just a little,” he said.
“I believe you took care of me last night,” I said, regretting the fact that I’d been so vulnerable and let my defenses down.
“Yes, and I bet you’re sorry about it this morning.”
“Maybe.” Jeez, I couldn’t believe O’Brien could read me that accurately.
“When do you have to be back at the office?” he asked. I knew where this was leading.
“Not till ten. I’ve got a meeting with Dunn.”
“Perfect,” he said, pulling me towards him. We headed back to his bedroom. This time we didn’t sleep.
***
By nine-thirty I was driving back to Pickerings Landing to drop Sadie off.
Tilda and Calvin were dumbfounded about the destruction on the Sea Bird. “Nothing like this has ever happened here before,” Calvin said. “I am so sorry. I have never thought we needed security here, but I suppose times are changing.”
“Something I’ve done must have brought it on. It’s not your fault.”
I dreaded seeing the Sea Bird in the light of day, but, hell, it wasn’t going to get any easier. It was as I’d remembered: a mess. O’Brien would notify the owners of the Sea Bird about the damage. I’d called Dunn. He hadn’t wasted any time getting a lab tech over. The guy was in the bathroom, meticulously plucking hairs out of the bathroom sink with a tweezers.
“Gilbert Dickson. Won’t shake your hand,” he said, indicating the gloves. Dickson was small and pasty. I found myself wondering how anyone could be that pale in this climate. The guy probably spent all his time looking under a microscope. He wore wire-rimmed glasses, an earring in one ear, and his hair cropped in a crew cut. He’d already covered the place in fingerprint dust.
“I’m finished here,” he said, sealing his evidence bag. “Should have results in about forty-eight hours.”
He packed up his case, headed down the dock, and climbed onto a huge Harley. The sight was so absurd I almost laughed.
The kittens were sound asleep, buried in their mother’s fur. Unlike the boat, she was looking better, not as desperate. When I bent and stroked her head, she actually started purring. Probably the only kindness she’d ever had from a human. I fed her and left for work. I had neither the time nor the inclination to start putting the boat back in order.
I put the top down on the Rambler. I intended to enjoy the drive, let the spider webs clear, my mind drift. Instead of turning on Blackburn Highway and driving along the waterfront, I headed up Paraquita Bay Road. It would take me to Ridge. As the name implies it runs along the ridge on the top of the island; the highest point is Mount Sage at about 1,780 feet. I’d get off Ridge at Belle Vue, which dropped down into Road Town. It was the long way, maybe four miles instead of three, but without the speed bumps that had been installed on Blackburn to prevent fast-moving vehicles from slaughtering chickens, goats, and small children that meandered across the road.
Paraquita Bay Road was just the way I’d hoped—deserted. I was the only car on the road. I drove slowly, but my mind refused to drift—too much disquiet. I was uncomfortable with the fact that I had headed straight to O’Brien’s in the middle of the night the minute things got a little rough. Why had I let this one get to me? I’d been threatened before, plenty of times. Never, though, had my home been invaded. Whom had I threatened enough to warrant the utter destruction of the Sea Bird? I actually hoped it was about my investigation. But damn, the more I thought about it, the more convinced I became that the message scrawled across my mirror was composed by one of the guys in the department. I couldn’t think of anyone else who had displayed such outright hatred of me. There was the fish vendor, of course, but he hadn’t struck me as the type of person who would take the time to plan out such an attack.
I sighed, not liking where my thoughts kept going. If I couldn’t trust the people I worked with, the people who might be watching my back someday—well, that was a big problem.
Chapter 16
Dunn was at his desk, deep in a pile of papers, when I knocked.
“Hannah, come in.” He pulled out a chair and listened quietly while I spent the next half hour venting. The more I talked, the more upset I got.
“I’m beginning to think it was a big mistake coming here. Maybe this is all about my being an outsider. I’ve been foolish to think I could fit in here.”
“Who have you angered so much?”
“You don’t even need to look beyond your door for the answer to that. Stark and Worthington can’t stand to see me walk into the office. Hell, they could have enlisted someone to trash my boat, or enjoyed the hell out of doing it themselves.”
“Hannah, calm down. I’ve worked with Stark and Worthington for years. They would never be involved in that kind of activity. They’re good men. Just give them time.”
“I don’t know, John. Maybe we both should have thought things though before we decided I should take the position down here.”
“This surprises me, Detective Sampson.” Dunn straightened in his chair and folded his hands in front of him. I knew the posture. I was about to get a lecture.
“I thought I knew you,” he said. “You mean to say you’re quitting because you’ve been threatened? I would have guessed you’d be doing just the opposite. Did you think things would be any different here than in Denver? You ever heard the saying ‘shit happens’? Well, it happens here too. You need to get past that damned idea that you can find some kind of nirvana on this earth. Everywhere you go, you’re going to find evil. These islands are no exception.”
Jeez, if I didn’t know better I’d think Dunn had been philosophizing with Mack over a couple of beers. But he was right. I needed to quit feeling sorry for myself and get back on track. I hated watching people wallowing in self-pity, and I’d just been buried in it up to my eyebrows.
“Okay, Chief. You’re right.”
“Good. Dickson’s already working on the stuff he collected from your boat. One thing you’ll discover about this island is that it’s too small to hide on for long.
“Now, tell me what you’ve turned up on the Robsen murder.”
I filled Dunn in on what I’d learned so far, which didn’t seem like much.
“More than likely you have put pressure on someone. The vandalism is probably related to the case.”
“Yeah, maybe. I just can’t figure out who I could have pushed hard enough to warrant the effort.” I still wasn’t convinced that Stark or Worthington wasn’t involved, but I kept it to myself.
“Knowing you, Detective, you’ve been pushing plenty, and it would take a blind man not to recognize that stubborn streak. The first time the killer met you, he would have understood that you aren’t the type to stop until you’ve got him. Whom have you been talking to?”
“Everyone who was on the Calypso the night Robsen was murdered. Right now no one sticks out, unless this whole thing is about jealousy and infidelity—that could mean Trish Robsen, Ursala Downing, Frank Downing. I’m also trying to track down a guy named Davies. Had a run-in with Robsen.”
I was interrupted by Dunn’s phone. He spoke for a minute or two, then hung up.
“Okay, tell me the rest later,” Dunn said. “Seems a dinghy washed up over at Great Harbour last night. Looks like it could be the Robsens’. Get Snyder and head over there.”
I hesitated at the door. “Chief, thanks for the lecture.”
“My pleasure.” He smiled. “But Hannah, I want you to watch yourself out there.”
“Yeah, I will.”
***
Snyder steered our boat through the break in the
reef at Jost Van Dyke and directly into the dock, narrowly but expertly avoiding the coral heads on either side. I had to admit the kid was skilled—I just wished he’d slow it down. Along the shore, a few small shops and restaurants dotted the beach in pink, purple, and yellow. We tied up to the dock and headed through the sand to the Government and Administration Building, a whitewashed two-story structure with blue doors. Around the side was the Jost Van Dyke Police.
A police officer greeted us at the door. “Hello dar, Jimmy,” he said, shaking Snyder’s hand. “And you must be Miss Sampson. Chief Dunn be mentioning you.
“Dinghy’s on da beach, washed up in front of Foxy’s.”
We walked down the stretch of white sand, past an ice cream stand and a burger joint. The dinghy had been pulled up onto the beach and sat baking in the afternoon sun. It was fiberglass, painted white, with the SeaSail logo on the side. Nothing out of the ordinary in it—a couple of oars, the gas tank hooked up to the engine, a greasy rag, the top half a plastic milk carton, perfect for bailing. A bottle of suntan lotion floated in the water that had accumulated on the floor. I lifted the locker latch with a pen and pulled the locker open. It was empty. No anchor.
There were no obvious signs of blood or any indications of violence. It looked like the boat had simply let loose and drifted into shore. We would haul it back to Road Town and have it checked out.
Snyder and I went up to talk with the bartender at Foxy’s. I’d heard all about the place and its owner, Foxy, who played guitar. It is legendary among boaters for its wild parties and its raucous New Year’s celebration.
Inside was a big open room filled with heavy wooden tables, the roof held up by bulky timber posts. The sand floor was being raked by one of the employees. A couple of people clearly sailors, were sitting at the bar, barefoot, drinking beer. But otherwise the place was empty.
“About eleven o’clock tonight this place will be packed,” Snyder said. Folks be doing the limbo in da sand. One of the local fellas, he always around competin’ because he thinks he’s the best. Kinda entertains da rest. He puts a full bottle of Heineken in his mouth, leans way back till his head is about a foot from the ground, and then he goes under the limbo stick drinking that damned beer.”
“Probably a good way to get the customers to buy him more Heinekens,” I said.
“Yeah, dat’s for sure.”
We found the bartender in back wiping down tables. He told us that the boat was washed up on the beach when he opened up that morning. He figured that one of the yachties, leaving with plenty of rum punch in his belly, had failed to secure it to his boat, and it had drifted back to shore. Evidently it was a common occurrence in this harbor. When no one was up claiming it by lunchtime, he walked over to the police office and told them about it.
Snyder and I went back down to the beach. He retrieved the Wahoo and I waded out to meet him, pulling the dinghy by its painter. We tied it to a cleat on the back of the Wahoo and I climbed in next to Snyder.
I could guess what had happened. Someone had taken Robsen and the dinghy out a couple of miles from Cane Garden Bay and dumped him in the water, leaving the dinghy to drift. The current and wind had carried Robsen’s body north, northwest to Sandy Cay. The boat would have floated farther, right into Great Harbour. Whoever dumped him probably thought that the body would have sunk and the boat would end up going straight out to sea. The murderer either didn’t know the waters and wind in the area or was too panicked to take them out farther. Maybe it looked far enough in the middle of the night.
We pulled the dinghy back across the passage to Cane Garden Bay and stopped at the Calypso. It was almost two o’clock, and I was due to have a talk with Pembrook. When we came alongside, Rodriguez was standing on deck with Pembrook.
“Ahoy,” Pembrook shouted, “come on aboard.”
“Hello, Guy, Mr. Rodriguez,” I said. “You about to become the proud owner?”
“I’m very interested in her,” he said. “She’s the kind of boat I’ve always dreamed of owning.”
“She’s beautiful,” I said.
“Yeah, she’s an Alden schooner,” Rodgriguez said, excited at the prospect of calling the boat his, “built in 1929 in Maine. A husky boat in a strong breeze with good sea running. Can’t wait to get her out under sail.”
Another boat fanatic, I thought as Rodriguez turned to leave.
“I’ll be in touch, Pembrook,” Rodriguez said, stepping into his boat. “Nice to see you again, Detective Sampson, Snyder. Good luck with your investigation.”
“Come on. I’ll show you around,” Pembrook said after Rodriguez left. He was being Mr. Hospitality. I guess he’d forgiven me for my questions yesterday. Or he was just happy that he was about to close a deal with Rodgriguez.
We went down below. It was a gorgeous boat. The original character had been preserved. The port holes were cast bronze; a brass kerosene lamp hung from the ceiling over the table; others were fitted on the walls. The doors were four-panel teak with brass hardware, and wooden beams spanned the ceiling. An old brass fog horn dangled from a hook above the chart table.
Alongside the antiques were all the modern technological advances, a GPS, radar, a computer that hooked up to the Internet via a radio, a fax machine. Though built in the 1920s, the boat was definitely geared for the twenty-first century.
“This had to cost a fortune.”
“Man, you don’t beat around the bush, do you?”
“Nope, can’t imagine how someone can pay for a boat like this on a writer’s salary. Unless you’re Stephen King or something.” I was thinking about what Mack had said about Pembrook’s finances.
“Well, she was a good investment. The plan was to sail her down her while I wrote the book, then sell her for a profit. I make plenty on my books and my other investments. Not that it’s any of your business.”
“Really, even with the stock market going the way it’s going?”
“Yeah. Even then.” Pembrook was lying, but I guess a lot of people didn’t admit it when they were about to go under the thumb of the mortgage company. According to Mack, if he didn’t sell the boat, that’s just what Pembrook was facing.
“Why don’t you keep her, then?”
“Too much work.”
That I did believe. Pembrook was not the type to be sweating over polished brass and shining teak. And he probably couldn’t afford to hire anyone else to do it.
We settled down below at the table in the salon. I could see the expectant look on Snyder’s face turn to disappointment when Elizabeth emerged from the forward cabin in an oversized T-shirt and baggy shorts. Poor kid.
“Would anyone else like a beer?” Elizabeth asked, popping one open and handing it to Guy.
“No, thanks. Just want to ask a few questions about Allen Robsen. Then we’ll get out of your hair.”
“I don’t know what else we can tell you,” Guy said. “We hardly knew him. Had seen him around the dock once or twice; then had him over that night. That’s the only time we really talked to him.”
“Can you think of anything at all that was unusual about that night? An argument or just something that didn’t seem quite right.”
“No. It was a friendly get-together. Oh, sure, the usual dynamics that happen when men and women are together drinking, but nothing out of the ordinary.”
“What kind of dynamic is that?”
“Oh, you know, bullshitting, some flirting. Like I said, I wouldn’t have been surprised if Robsen was planning to see Ursala. But then he could have just planned to have drinks with the Texans. They’re a rowdy group and really wanted to keep a party going on shore. All Robsen said was that he was going into shore, got in his dinghy and motored in. We went to bed.”
“Did you talk much with Robsen?”
”Sure, he was a nice guy. Really interested in the Calypso. I showed him the entire boat.”
“We came below so I could show him the chart that maps out where we’d been sailing. That kind of thing. Rob
sen really had the bug. Had this idea about taking a year and sailing all through the Caribbean. We talked about the various islands, my work.”
Pembrook was opening another beer when I heard a boat engine, then shouting. Elizabeth excused herself, saying that she and the two women from the Dallas were headed into Road Town to shop. Guy followed her up.
While they were up top, I snooped. What can I say? It’s what I do. The shelf behind the table was lined with books—mostly natural histories. One was The Nature Lover’s Guide to the Hawaiian Islands by Guy Pembrook. I pulled it down. Just then Guy came back down. He looked perturbed. I felt guilty.
“Sorry, couldn’t help but take a look at your book. You must be quite an authority.”
When I replaced the book I noticed a tiny round hole just above the row of books.
“This looks like a bullet hole.”
“Cleaning my gun,” he said. “Damned if it didn’t still have a bullet in the chamber.”
“Glad I not be standin’ in front of dat pistol,” Snyder said. “That be kind of careless.”
“Yeah, well, that’s the only time I’ve ever shot anything I didn’t mean to hit,” Guy said, obviously insulted.
“What does that mean? Have you shot at someone?” I was puzzled by Guy’s remark.
“No! Just do some target practicing, that kind of thing.”
“Why do you have a gun?”
“Got to watch out in some of the remote places in these islands, especially around the southern Caribbean. You never know what you might run into. Someone wanting to rob you, maybe take the boat. I wouldn’t want to be without some kind of protection. Matter of fact, I have a couple, all nice and legal—registered, permits, the works,” he said.
“Mind if I take a look?” I asked.
Pembrook went to a locked cabinet that was attached to the bulkhead and unlocked it. Inside were a couple of rifles and two handguns.
“A lot of weaponry to have on a boat,” I said, picking up one of the handguns—a new Springfield Sub-Compact XD. It was a solid, chunky little 9mm—not loaded.
