by Kathy Brandt
“Hell, no way I’m letting anyone aboard my boat uninvited,” he said, taking the gun from me and replacing it in the rack. “I’d shoot in a minute. These outlaws see that and they take off.”
He showed us the paperwork. It was all legal, just like he’d said.
Snyder and I spent a few more minutes talking with Pembrook. He had little else to tell us about the night on the Calypso.
“What do you think, Snyder?” I asked as we pulled away.
“I don’t like that man’s all I know. Seems to me he be having money he don’t deserve. In da islands folks work hard for what dey got.”
“Yeah, Pembrook seems to have come by it the easy way,” I agreed.
I could see Trish and her son sitting in the cockpit of the Wind Runner, so we pulled alongside. I held on to the rail, keeping the Wahoo from bumping Trish’s boat while we talked.
She recognized the dinghy right away.
I told her we’d found it washed up over at Great Harbour. We’d would take it into town and have it checked out more closely.
“I’ll ask the people at SeaSail to bring you a replacement.”
“That would be great,” she said. “One that has a working engine.”
“What?” I asked.
“Well, the engine had quit,” she said.
Just then Snyder jammed the boat into gear and hit the gas in order to avoid the huge wake from a power boat that was entering the harbor and threatened to crash us against the Wind Runner.
Chapter 17
A half hour later we’d dropped the dinghy off at a protected slip near the SeaSail docks. Dunn would send someone down to dust for prints and check for blood stains or anything else that might provide a hint to what had happened to Robsen.
Then Snyder eased the Wahoo into its slip in Road Town. As we walked down the dock, I noticed a guy in a dirty red shirt standing up ahead on a nearby fishing boat, arms crossed, glaring our way. Before he even moved, I knew he was trouble.
“You know that guy?” I asked.
Snyder stared straight at the guy.
“Snyder! Can you be less obvious?”
Snyder dropped his gaze and we kept walking. “Don’t know who he is, but dat boat’s the one I heard Davies hired out on, da Dolphin. Musta just come back into the harbor.”
“Okay, let’s talk to the guy.”
He saw us coming. I could tell he was trying to decide whether to jump us or run. I knew what he was thinking—a woman and a skinny kid. Maybe he could take us both. I hoped he’d try.
“You Clement Davies?” I asked.
“Who the hell wants to know?”
“I’m Detective Sampson, Tortola PD.”
Davies continued to lean casually against the side of the boat. The hold was filled with fish. Stacked on deck were several bundles of what looked like fins, maybe shark fins. Davies was still trying to decide whether to fight or flee. He was big, but out of shape, a cigarette dangling from his mouth. He tossed it in the water and took off running.
Snyder shot off after him. I was right behind. Nothing like eighteen-year-old reflexes, but Davies was motivated. He was halfway up Pasea Road by the time we reached the end of the dock. I caught a glimpse of him just as he climbed over a chain-link fence into the boat yard. When we got to the fence, he had disappeared somewhere in the maze of boats that were scattered inside. Damned if Snyder didn’t climb effortlessly to the top of the fence and jump. I never even considered it. By the time I’d have made it to the top, Davies would be on the other side of the island. Besides that, the stupid kid was going to end up breaking a leg or worse. I motioned to him that I’d head around to the other side. Hopefully I’d intercept Davies coming out.
A couple of minutes later, Snyder staggered out of the boats, breathing hard and holding his side.
“What happened?”
“Never saw him. He didn’t come past you?”
“No. He’s still got to be inside.”
We headed back into the boat yard. Snyder rushed off one way; I went the other. There were fifty or sixty boats in various stages of repair in the enclosure. And plenty of places to hide. I stopped and listened for any sound, watched for movement. I could hear Snyder over on the other side of the yard clattering into one boat after another. Someday Snyder would learn to channel that damned energy. Hell, I admit it, I was jealous.
A sound drew me from the noise Snyder was making. It came from a small rowboat lying on its side in the grass. I was just a couple of yards from the boat when Davies darted from behind it and took off out the gate.
I yelled at Snyder and reached the gate in time to see Davies duck into Seaside Marine Supplies. When I dashed into the shop flashing my badge, the only one inside was a clerk who pointed toward the back of the store. I moved past the cash register to a shelf laden with boat gadgets and peered down the aisle. Nothing. I crept to the back of the store and listened for sound. Then I heard it, the scraping of a boot on tile the next aisle over. I slipped around the corner and found him. He was holding a can of WD-40, which he was about to fling at me when he saw the .38 in my hand.
Snyder rushed in behind me, knocking over a display of engine oil that had been stacked in a pyramid, sending the cans all over the store. He pulled out his cuffs and clicked them around Davies’s wrists. I could tell he was disappointed that he hadn’t caught up with Davies first.
“Thanks, Snyder,” I said. “We make a good team.”
“No problem,” he said, smiling.
***
Back at the office we took Davies into what Dunn called the interrogation room. It was a spare room in the back with a couple of chairs and a table. No one-way glass or closed-circuit cameras here, but I did have the tape running. Dunn was standing at the door, leaning against the jam.
“Why the hell did you run?” I asked Davies.
“Shit, think I want to go to jail? Hell, I was drunk. I didn’t mean to hurt anyone.”
“You want to tell me about it?” Jesus, was it really going to be this easy? I tried to slow down. Keep him talking.
“Hell, I lost my damned job. I was pissed. I went and bought myself a couple bottles of rum and got drunk.”
“When was this?”
“Friday, boss called me in. Told me he’d gotten his last complaint. Damned tourists. None of ‘em know how to handle da boats like I do. Hell, I been sailing for years.”
“What about that anchor letting loose over at Cooper?” I asked.
“Well, hell, how is anyone supposed to get six, seven boats anchored at once? So I made one little mistake.”
“Sound like the mistake was taking a swing at one of the tourists.”
“Yeah, well, he deserved it.”
“Is that why you killed him?” Dunn asked.
“Killed? Killed who?” Davies sounded bewildered.
“Allen Robsen.”
“I didn’t kill nobody! Shit, don’t know no Robsen!”
“He’s the guy you took the swing at. The one who got you fired.”
“Christ, is that what dis is about? Shoulda known it was about some damned tourist.”
“Why did you think we were after you?”
“’Cause I got drunk and punched my girlfriend. Figured her father be down here throwing one big fit, demanding you come get me.”
“No one has lodged an assault complaint,” Dunn said.
“Well, shit, then let me outta here,” he said, standing and heading for the door.
“Don’t think so, Mr. Davies,” Dunn said, his mass blocking the doorway.
“Where were you Sunday night, early Monday morning?” I asked.
“Hey, no way you going to pin no murder on me,” he said, pulling a cigarette from his pocket and lighting it.
“No smoking in here,” Dunn said, snatching it out of his mouth and pulverizing it under his shoe. It was a warning.
“Christ, I was drinking with Stuart Vine and another guy owns the Dolphin,” Davies said. “We was down at the Dou
bloon till they closed. Had to be about two o’clock. Then I went out fishing early Monday morning and just got back this afternoon. Vine come by and told me you be looking for me. Figured it was about me roughin’ up my girl. Hell, I didn’t even know that guy was dead.”
So much for easy. We’d check out his story, but I was pretty sure he was telling the truth. So was Dunn. He just looked at me and shook his head.
“Okay, Davies, you can go,” Dunn said, “but don’t be goin’ too far.”
Davies was almost out the door when I stopped him.
“One other thing. What were those fins stacked on the Dolphin?”
“Shark fins. Why?”
“What do you do with them?”
“Boss lets any of the guys on the boat lucky enough to wrestle in a shark take the fins for themselves. Kind of a little extra incentive to sign on for a week or more at sea. The guys get a small percentage of the profits from the fish dat are caught. If the fishing is bad, it might mean a week’s work and no money. But a few shark fins can make up for it. Some people pay real good for those fins.”
“Like who?”
“Every once in a while a fishing boat comes through these waters looking for fins, drifts out in deep water. Guess dey probably sell dem to shippers who can get the product to markets in Asia. Local fishermen find out real quick when there’s someone out there buying.”
“Do you know of any in the area now?”
“If I did, don’t think I’d want to say and don’t think I’d have to. It’s not against the law to fish for sharks, you know?”
“Yeah, so I’ve heard.”
According to Elyse, it’s the United States that outlaws shark finning. There are no laws in the Caribbean. The UN has developed a global plan for the conservation of sharks, but enforcement is often impossible. It appeared no one on the Dolphin was breaking any laws.
“If there’s nothin’ else, I’ll be going,” Davies said. He couldn’t get out of there fast enough.
I followed Dunn back to his office. “What was all that about shark fins?” he asked as he sank heavily into the chair behind his desk. Dunn was tired and disappointed that Davies wasn’t our man. He wanted to put this thing to rest. It would have taken a lot of pressure off.
“Elyse Henry has found some dead sharks out at the Rhone, fins amputated. She’s very concerned.”
“Christ, Detective Sampson, let’s keep the focus on the case.”
“Yeah, the thing is that Trish Robsen mentioned coming across a boat like the one Davies described when they were on their way into Tortola from Saint Croix. She said the guy on the radio warned them off, didn’t want them coming near the boat. Maybe the Robsens saw something they shouldn’t have.”
“You know how many fishing boats are out on the water like that? Besides, if the Robsens had seen something on that boat, Trish Robsen would be dead too, and like Davies said, it’s not against the law to kill sharks.”
Not unless a U.S. boat is involved, I thought to myself. Trish had said the Emerald Queen was out of Saint Thomas, part of the United States. If they were loaded down with shark fins, they stood to lose millions if they were discovered by U.S. authorities. I didn’t push it with Dunn, though. He was probably right. I was getting off track.
“Anything on that dinghy?” he asked.
“It’s Robsen’s. Dickson will be going over it.”
“What else do you have on the murder?”
“I’m guessing that Robsen’s body was dumped two, maybe three miles out along with the dinghy. He washed into the coral at Sandy Cay. The boat drifted into Great Harbour. He was killed sometime after the party on the Calypso. Whoever did it loaded the body in a boat, took it and the dinghy out to where they hoped both would just disappear, wrapped the anchor around the body, and threw it overboard. One of the sailors at Cane Garden Bay saw a boat motoring out late. Thought it was pulling something. Had to be Robsen’s dinghy.”
“You must have some suspicions about who did this.”
“Well, Davies was at the top of the list.”
“Let’s not rule him out then until we check his alibi. Why don’t you talk to the captain of the Dolphin?” Dunn stood and yelled out the door. “Snyder!”
“Yeah, Chief?” Snyder had been hovering right outside at the coffee machine.
“I want you to go down to the Doubloon. See if Clement Davies was down there drinking Sunday night. What time he left.”
“No problem, Chief!” Snyder practically ran out the door.
“Okay, who else should we be checking out?”
“Trish Robsen has a motive—jealous wife, no alibi, went home to bed after she left the Calypso. She could have shot him when he came home that night and dumped him out there, but why leave the dinghy, and how would she have gotten back to the Wind Runner?”
“Maybe she had help.”
“But who? The Manettis? I seriously doubt they would get involved.”
“Who else?” Dunn demanded.
“Could be Ursala Downing. She’s got motive—spurned lover. No alibi, and she’d asked Robsen to meet her. Sat on the beach waiting for him. Says he never showed, so she went home. Maybe Robsen showed up to call the whole thing off and she got pissed. But she also would have had to load him in a boat, dump him and the dinghy. All without being seen.”
“Maybe Frank helped her.”
“Yeah, or for that matter, maybe Frank killed Robsen himself. He could have been jealous that Ursala was actually following through with Robsen. I hear he’s got a huge ego problem.”
“What about the other folks on the Calypso that night?”
“That would be the two couples on the Dallas, the Manettis and the Pembrooks. I’m checking them all out. So far I haven’t come up with anything. The Manettis and Robsens did some socializing in the last week. No one else knew Robsen well, and as far as I can tell none of them had any reason to want him dead.”
“Well, keep after it.”
“Don’t worry, Chief. Something will turn up.”
Jean intercepted me in the hall.
“Hannah, there’s a phone call for you. Lady says it’s urgent.”
Chapter 18
Damned if it wasn’t Ursala Downing. I could barely hear her. She was whispering into the phone. In the background people were laughing, ice rattling and glasses clinking. Drinks were being made.
“Detective Sampson, I need to talk with you.” I could hear the fear, even in her whisper.
“Where are you?”
“The Watering Hole.”
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“Not on the phone. Can you meet me at my house? Right away?”
“I can be there in twenty, thirty minutes.”
“Do you know where it is?”
“Yes, I know, the big place above Cane Garden Bay.”
“That’s it; take a left off of Luck Hill. It’s almost at the end. You’ll see our name at the entrance.”
Suddenly she stopped talking. At first I thought we had been disconnected, but then I heard women chattering in the background. Then the voices faded.
“You still there?” I asked.
“Yes. Please come right away,” she said. Then the line went dead.
***
I pulled out of the parking lot and I headed up Joes Hill Road to Cane Garden Bay Road. The sun lay just on top of the water, shooting orange and pink up into clouds. The road was shadowed in dusk. Dark had already eaten its way into the trees. Twenty minutes later I turned off at Luck Hill and followed it to Ursala’s driveway. It was well marked, “Downing” etched in big letters on a bronze sign.
The house was perched on the side of the hill, with a spectacular view of the bay. I could see the horseshoe of lights that twinkled below, marking the restaurants and homes on the shore. A few lights from boats reflected into the water in the harbor—the Calypso and the Dallas distinct enough to pick out among the others.
The driveway was one of those circular things with
trees and shrubs growing in the center. No other cars were parked outside. I left the Rambler right in front and stepped out. The house was palatial. Expanses of manicured lawn filled with flowering bushes had been thrashed out of the wild vegetation that still surrounded the perimeter of the yard and continued all the way down to the bay. Crickets and tree frogs were beginning their night songs.
A muted light glowed from an upper window; otherwise the house was dark. The place looked deserted, but Ursala had said a half hour. It would have taken her all of ten minutes to get home from the Watering Hole. Maybe she’d decided to stay for a night cap, but I didn’t believe it. There had been too much fear in her voice.
I rang the bell and waited. Nothing but silence. I rang again. No one. I didn’t like it. Something was wrong. I pulled out my weapon. Then I turned the knob and stepped into a towering foyer, in the middle of which a crystal chandelier reflected shards of light from the room above.
Once inside I waited for my body to adjust to the space. The foyer felt hollow, cold. Green marble tile ended at a white-carpeted staircase that curved up to the second floor.
“Ursala?” I called, my voice echoing into the house. Christ, this was not good. I was about to turn on my flashlight when I felt movement in the shadows, under the stairway. It was slight, maybe just imagination or my taut nerves sending false messages to my brain. I waited, heart rate doubling. Senses on alert. Straining to see into the blackness.
“Step out,” I said drawing my gun. “Police.”
I felt the sting in my hair about the same time I heard a blast reverberate through the foyer. The last thing I saw was green and felt hard against my cheek.
***
When consciousness once again took shape, I thought I was in bed nursing a hangover. The thing was, I didn’t remember the party. It sure felt like a hangover, though. My heart was pumping a rhythmic drum beat into my head—expand and thump, expand and thump—each thump produced a searing pain in my temples. I didn’t want to open my eyes.
Maybe if I went back to sleep, I’d feel better next time I awoke. Not likely. I opened my eyes and tried to clear the mottled green that floated in my vision. Then I realized I was staring at the hard marble in the foyer of Ursala’s house. I tried to think in spite of the stabbing in my head and finally realized that something besides alcohol was responsible for the pain. I’d been shot. I could feel wet slime sliding down the right side of my head. When I touched fingers to my temple, they came away red and sticky. If the bullet had been just a tad to the left, I would be lying on the floor dead. Christ, just a matter of a damn inch. As it was, the bullet had put a groove just above my ear.
