Unlike Jeff “The Big” Lebowski, I liked the Eagles and Creedence, so I popped The Eagles Greatest Hits, Volume 1 into the CD player and sat in front of my computer to check email. Twelve new messages. Eleven went straight to my junk folder, but one had a recognizable address—Marko Martijn, the contractor responsible for the unfinished foundation work. Before I clicked it open, my cellphone rang.
“What’s up, Bella?” I said.
“Hey, Conklin, happy birthday.”
I laughed. “Thanks, but you’re a little early.”
“I know, but since it will be the big five-oh, I thought your memory might slip and needed a reminder.”
“Yeah, that’s funny.” Arabella De Groot was from the Netherlands, and I’d found sarcasm doesn’t always work on the Dutch.
“I thought so. I called to see how you are doing.”
“Well … I’m about to take a shower. Want to join me?”
“I wish I could, but I am on my way to work. They called me in to work the desk tonight.”
“That’s too bad.”
“Yes, for both of us. It is that new inspector, Schleper. He thinks we are at his beck and call.”
I walked out on the balcony and sat on a lounger facing the sea. “Yup, sounds familiar.”
“Ach. You think he would give me more respect.” She exhaled a short, hard breath. “I have been a cop for ten years on this island. Longer than him!”
Changing the conversation, I asked, “We still running tomorrow morning?”
“You bet. Eight kilometers?”
“If you mean four point nine miles, then yes.”
She laughed. “No, I mean eight kilometers.”
“Ah, forgive me. My measurements are still strictly American.”
“I will forgive you. You are drinking a beer right now?”
“Yup. Need to drink away my sorrows before I shower. Alone.”
“Do not drink too much. I do not want to hear excuses for tomorrow’s run.”
“Maybe one more, then I have some paperwork to do. Or maybe change a light bulb.”
“Yeah, right. You are drinking, so you will not do more work tonight.”
“Hey …”
“I will see you tomorrow. Usual time?”
“Yup. Good night.”
She chuckled. “I will send you a text reminder.”
I seldom read text messages and never answered them, but the phone pinged as soon as I set it down. She’d included the words “old man” as part of the reminder about our run.
The sun had moved closer to the distant horizon, creating an orange aura behind the few low clouds. Palm trees and sunsets. Tough to find a more relaxing setting. I nursed my beer and watched the sparse traffic crawl along the one-lane road that ran between the YellowRock Resort and the sea.
I imagined Erika’s delight in arriving at work in the morning and finding the light fixed. It’d be easy—just a bulb. As I headed toward the stairs to retrieve the bags sitting on my office desk, the landline phone rang; the one used most often for off-island communications. It might’ve been a future guest wanting to make a reservation at the YellowRock or maybe an old friend from the States calling to chat me up about retirement in paradise.
Darkness was settling over the vast, smooth sea, and I took a swig of beer, not interested in answering the phone, content with letting voicemail do its job. Besides, the Eagles were telling me to take it easy, and, regardless of the light bulb, that sounded like a good idea. Arabella was right. I was drinking; my work finished for the night.
Second ring.
Nearby, my banjo sat on its stand. Erika had kept me busy enough lately that practice had eluded me. Picking some tunes sounded good.
Third ring.
Turning around, I noticed my old 7-iron propped in the corner. I hadn’t played golf since moving to Bonaire five years ago but still fed the urge to practice my swing. Make sure my elbow stayed tucked, and the clubface didn’t open.
Fourth ring.
Or I could swap the Eagles CD for Creedence, sit on the balcony, and drink another beer or two or three, watching the sun settle below the horizon. Maybe skip the shower, doze off early, and catch a few Zs to the rhythm of the waves.
Fifth ring.
I could’ve done any of those things but didn’t.
Instead, I went to my desk and answered the phone.
CHAPTER 3
THE CALLER WAS Mike Traverso. We had worked together for a short time in the Violent Crimes Division of the Rockford Police Department and hadn’t spoken since my retirement.
“Mike … What’s up?”
Mike wasn’t much of a talker and got straight to the point. “It’s Bill Ryberg … he’s dead.”
I slumped into a chair. Traverso stayed quiet for a moment, allowing me to absorb the news. I used my hand to prop up my head and stared at the darkness beneath the desk, trying to make sense of what he had said.
Too many late nights, crappy food on the go, and high levels of stress had taken a toll on Bill. Large doses of coffee and beer hadn’t helped either. For years, his doctor had insisted he take better care of himself, but like most tough-guy cops, Bill ignored the advice. After his retirement and the clearing of a blood clot, he finally wised up and began to listen. In addition to eating healthy, he quit drinking—cold turkey—and started walking every morning. Last time we talked, he said he felt better than he had in a long time.
Too little, too late.
“R,” Traverso said, “he was murdered.”
The word murdered jolted me like a punch to the chest, a punch so hard it nearly stopped my heart or, at least, made it skip several beats. The room spun a bit, and I closed my eyes to keep from being sick.
Traverso took a breath. “Yesterday morning. He and Marybeth were both shot. At home.”
“Shot? Both of them?” I leaned forward in the chair, neck hairs bristling.
“I thought you should know,” he said.
“Marybeth?”
Mike paused a beat or two before answering. “Yeah.”
Nose tingling, eyes welling with tears, my mind swirled, and I wasn’t sure what to do except fight the urge to break down. If anyone other than Traverso had told me this, I wouldn’t have believed it. Maybe even laughed it off as a joke.
But I wasn’t laughing.
The anger—closer to rage—surged. I’d seen it many times.
The detective in me wanted to drill Traverso for information, and, as impossible as it sounded, take the investigative lead myself. To track down the monster who killed my buddy and his wife.
“I need to put you on hold,” Traverso said. He didn’t wait for a response, and the phone went quiet.
My career as a detective with the Rockford Police Department had exposed me to a lifetime’s worth of crime and tragedy. Murder is a common offense in Rockford, ranked fifth worst in violent crime statistics for the entire United States. Even worse than nearby Chicago.
Sometimes, the atrocities had happened to acquaintances. After a while, a sense of numbness set in, and I treated all cases with a sense of distant professionalism, removing myself emotionally from the situation to remain sane. Do the job while investing as little feeling as possible. Not easy, and maybe, since my retirement, some of the walls I’d built around me had collapsed. After all, this wasn’t just anyone.
Nor was it just an acquaintance.
Traverso kept me on hold for several minutes, long enough for me to formulate a page full of questions.
“I’m back,” Traverso said.
My voice cracked. “Tell me what happened.”
“Not much to tell. The coroner puts death between five and seven a.m. No witnesses, of course. We’re canvassing the neighborhood. We know there was a struggle because Bill’s leg was shattered.”
“Robbery?”
“Don’t think so. It doesn’t look like anything is missing, and no signs of B and E or forced entry.”
“Someone they knew.”
“Who found them?”
“Anonymous call. We couldn’t trace it so probably a burner phone.”
One of those cheap, limited-use cellphones sold at drug stores, convenience shops, and gas stations. They’re impossible to trace because the numbers associated with the phones aren’t assigned or registered to specific individuals. Make a few calls, then dump it in the trash. The answer to every criminal’s prayers.
“That doesn’t sound random,” I said. “Not many people walking around with untraceable phones at the ready.”
Mike was quiet.
I asked about a link analysis—a process of combing through all aspects of Bill’s cases, both former and active at the time of his retirement. People, vehicles, addresses, and a host of other information would be loaded into a computer program and cross-referenced against current leads on other cases.
“Started, but nothing yet. We’re digging,” Traverso said.
“Dig deep, Mike.”
“You know how this works, R. It’s my highest priority. I’ve got everything and anything I need. We’re on top of this and will take care of it.”
Mike let out a long, exaggerated sigh. We both wanted the same thing. He’d bypassed protocol and given me useful information, knowing I would’ve done the same for him.
“I’m sorry. It’s a big shock,” I said.
“I understand.”
We were both quiet for a moment.
“I have to go,” he said. “If we get more, I’ll try calling you back.”
“Thanks. I know it’s delicate but keep me in the loop. Please.”
“No promises, but I’ll do my best.”
Traverso hung up. I went to the fridge and counted four Brights. Not even close to what I needed.
I opened one and took a swig. All of a sudden, my world seemed a lot emptier.
And lonelier.
CHAPTER 4
ARABELLA AND I usually meet for our runs at seven in the morning, but I liked to arrive a few minutes early to enjoy the quiet sunrise. Most tourists anticipated the sunsets on Bonaire, a time to recover from the day’s dives, have a cocktail or two, and plan the evening’s events. But the calm and serenity of the dawn, the tranquility of the island coming to life and preparing for a new day, was meditative.
After a mostly sleepless, turbulent night, images and memories of my old partner dominating my consciousness, I savored the peaceful morning. Alone with my thoughts, I sat on a concrete bench at a location known as Windsock, a small stretch of beach a few minutes south of Kralendijk, and listened to the gentle rhythm of the sea.
My elbows rested on my knees, hands cradling my chin. A distant oil tanker, its massive hull riding high in the water, headed west, on course for the neighboring island of Curacao. Not far offshore, a pair of kayakers paddled across the smooth, glass-like water. My restlessness worked against enjoying the morning and the freshness of a new day.
There had to be a motive. Bill always said, “Start at the end and work forward. Find the motive.”
And how did Marybeth figure into the motive?
Too many questions had haunted me the night before. I watched the ceiling fan go round and round and woke in the morning with no answers. Not even guesses.
I stood, raised my arms over my head, and arched my back, trying to stretch away the sluggishness. It didn’t work, and I yawned. My muscles resisted movement, the lack of sleep taking hold of me. Not to mention last night’s beers. Like a dog shaking its fur to dry, my body quivered as if trying to toss away reality.
Off to my right, down the shoreline, two pelicans were perched on a trunk-sized boulder, their heads moving back and forth, scanning the water. They sat motionless and waited for the sun to penetrate the shallows and illuminate unsuspecting fish to snag for breakfast.
Hard to believe it’d been five years since I’d last seen Bill. When I first moved to the island, we’d make contact every couple of weeks. Over time, the frequency grew longer and longer and became every couple of months. Not surprising. Once the work’s gone, partners have less in common. He often talked about visiting the island, wanting to experience life for the “other half,” but he—we—never planned an actual trip. Even though life found us on different paths, we were still good friends.
Bill was smart, but, more importantly, he possessed the three characteristics that made him the most effective investigator I’d ever known: objectivity, logic, and common sense.
He’d been the better detective and maybe the best in the department. No one else could hold a notepad and pencil to his abilities. I wasn’t a slapstick Keystone Cop, nor had I considered myself a bumbling fool as portrayed in TV cop sitcoms, but too often I became sold on a suspect early in an investigation. Bill stayed objective and countered my tendency to shape or interpret evidence to support my theories. He remained open-minded and willing to consider all suspects and alternatives.
A car horn beeped, interrupting my trance and sending the pelicans flying down the shoreline. My running partner, Arabella, slowed to a stop and parked her secondhand Toyota on the gravel shoulder. She gave a quick wave, gulped from a water bottle, and got out.
Her Nike running shoes were in desperate need of replacement, showing generous wear and tear from many miles of road work. The blue in her sports bra, along with the red and white of her nylon shorts, completed a colorful ensemble of Old Glory. I considered mentioning something about her misplaced patriotism when I remembered the flag of her native Netherlands contained the same colors.
She carried a fluorescent pink tank top, which she slipped into as she walked, her thighs flexing with each step. The shirt had a black swoosh across the front, large letters on top, which read I Run Like a Girl, and below, Try to Keep Up!
Large doses of exercise and an insanely high metabolism kept her body weight proportional and well distributed. With curved sport-glasses and blond hair pulled back in a tight ponytail, she could’ve easily walked onto the cover of Runner’s World magazine. A short, fleshy nose, shallow cheekbones, and modest overbite might prevent most men from considering her attractive, but I found her striking. The edges of her mouth were always curved upward, just slightly, as if ready to break out in a smile or spontaneous laughter. Taking in the sight, I remembered why I enjoyed running with her.
My pulse quickened.
She put her arms around my neck and kissed me. “Are you ready?” she asked, the twinkle in her blue eyes reminding me of sunrays reflecting off the sea. At a tad under six feet, she stood almost as tall as me and was the first woman I’d ever seen eye to eye with, literally and figuratively.
“Well, that depends,” I said. “Are you referring to the run?”
“Yes. But I want to apologize for the shower last night.”
“The one I took by myself?”
She smiled. “Yes, that one.”
“I never realized Dutch women were such a tease.” I gave her a peck on the lips.
“Going to be hot today.” Bending at the waist, she placed her palms on the ground several times.
I didn’t attempt any stretching and looked down the road, south, in the direction we’d be going. My preferred method of exercise was swimming; however, Arabella enjoyed running so I indulged her and went along several times a week.
“Should we not start?” she said, beginning a slow jog and pressing the start button on her watch.
My knees creaked a few times as I slipped in alongside her, my mouth already dry. If it weren’t for the salty air and the lingering strawberry scent of Arabella’s shampoo, I might’ve smelled the beer pouring out of my skin disguised as sweat.
Yesterday, this sounded like a good idea. This morning, not so much.
Flat and straight, the road before us seemed to stretch forever. A light breeze did little to offset the heat radiating off the pavement, already sizzling from the intense rays of the morning sun. On our right side, calm and pristine, the sea, like a seductive siren, becko
ned me to end this madness and plunge myself into her refreshing waters.
We reached the turnaround point, a blue X painted on the edge of the pavement. Arabella runs specific distances. It’s never about eight kilometers or a little over five miles or any such nonsense. Years ago, she had used a GPS to locate and mark the exact halfway point. Precisely eight kilometers, round trip. No more. No less.
We crossed the road and headed back north. Arabella glanced at her watch and grimaced. My face throbbed as sweat streamed down my neck and chest. She would never point it out, but we both knew I was slowing her down. The sun and heat didn’t affect her, and at ten years my junior, she could outrun me on any given day.
Especially after last night.
“Bella, you go on. I’m going to slow down a bit.”
She nodded and surged ahead a few yards. My pace slacked off just enough to put her a few yards in front of me. I didn’t mind. Running behind her was the most enjoyable exercise imaginable, watching the sweat roll down her back and soak her nylon shorts. Her hamstrings and butt muscles worked in perfect harmony as they propelled her forward.
By the time I returned to Windsock, my feet were like anvils and throbbed with every step. Arabella had removed her tank top and was sipping from a bottle of water, her damp hair and flat belly gleaming with moisture. She strode toward me.
“Need some water, old man?”
Bent at the waist, my breathing deep and rapid, I couldn’t respond. By the time I managed to raise my head, the bottle was in midair. I caught it, downed a long hard swallow, and leaned against the hood of my Wrangler.
Windsock derived its name from its proximity to the island’s airport. On the other side of the road, a few yards beyond a security fence, a large orange windsock swayed in the breeze alongside the approach end of the runway. From here, using my 7-iron, I could put a golf ball on the tarmac. Arabella talked shop, something about last night’s shift, but my mind wandered, and I only caught every third word or so.
Diver's Paradise Page 2
