A small, twin-engine commuter taxied into position for takeoff, destined, no doubt, for one of the neighboring islands. After sitting at the end of the runway for a moment, the engines revved, and prop wash blew across Windsock Beach as the plane began its takeoff roll. It sped down the runway, raised its nose into the air, and clawed for altitude into the clear sky, leaving all of us and our troubles behind.
Arabella stepped into my field of vision. “Hellooo, Conklin. Are you with me?”
The plane made a left turn and continued its climb, becoming a small dot, engulfed by endless blue. Arabella snapped her fingers in my face, and after a moment, I looked down.
“What?” she asked.
I moved bits of gravel with my foot, then raised my head and let out a deep sigh. “Bill Ryberg is dead.”
Her shoulders slumped, and she put a hand on my arm. “Oh no. That is terrible.”
“He and Marybeth were both shot. In their home.”
Eyes wide, her jaw dropped. “What happened?”
“Not sure, but it wasn’t a robbery.” A shrug and a shake of my head. “Probably someone they knew. Revenge, maybe?”
She leaned beside me against the Wrangler and stared at the gravel. “What are you going to do?”
Across the street, the windsock held at a forty-five-degree angle. I wished the breeze could blow all this away.
“Not sure,” I said.
“You are going back to the States?”
“Why would I do that?”
She bounced the palm of her hand off her forehead. “Do you not want to go to the funeral?”
“Won’t be one. They both wanted cremation.”
“But there will be a ceremony or something? You would want to attend?”
Funerals—or ceremonies or memorials or whatever—were for the living. The dead didn’t care. I shook my head. “No one there I need to see or talk to.”
We were both quiet for a bit. Arabella watched me dig more gravel with my foot.
“There is another reason to go back,” she finally said. When I didn’t respond, she added, “To help find who did this.”
“No one wants my help.” I paused a moment. “I’m retired, remember? I don’t do that anymore.”
“But—”
“I’m not going back,” I said, shaking my head with every word.
Arabella pushed away from the Wrangler and stood in front of me, hands on her hips. “You have to do something.”
“I’m two thousand miles away.” I began counting on my fingers. “I don’t know how the scene was secured; no photographs; don’t know who the witnesses are, let alone any chance to interview them; no access to physical evidence; no ballistics; no coroner’s report—”
She held up her hands. “Okay, okay.” She resumed her lean against the Wrangler.
“Not to mention access to possible suspects and interrogation notes.”
Neither of us spoke.
After a moment, she said in a low voice, “Maybe I can help. I have some experience.”
I held back a smile. “I know you do.” I took her arms and pulled her close. “I’ll make some calls and see what I can find out. To be honest, I want to know more, but I don’t want to get my hopes up. I’m not sure what I can do from here.”
Arabella wrapped her arms around my neck and moved even closer. “I will help. You must tell me what to do.” She kissed me.
After the kiss, we rested against each other’s forehead. “Let me make those calls. Then I’ll let you know what I think.”
She looked me in the eyes. “I am sorry for your friends.”
We hugged. After a moment, a passing motorist honked, and we pulled apart, laughing.
“Are you coming over tonight?” I asked.
“I want to, but I have that new exercise class.”
I shook my head. “You exercise too much.”
“See this?” She squeezed a portion of her belly skin between two fingers. “Too much fat. I must get rid of this and stay in shape.”
“You know, we could create an exercise class of our own.”
She smiled and shook her head.
“Call me later?” I asked.
“Of course. Do I always?”
A truck pulled off the road onto the gravel shoulder and skidded to a stop in front of Arabella’s car. Stenciled on the tailgate was “M + M Concrete.” The driver’s door flung open, and a towering figure stepped out and walked in our direction. Concrete dust covered the lower half of his worn jeans and boots. Dried sweat, and perhaps yesterday’s dirt—or last week’s dirt for that matter—stained his white T-shirt. No sunglasses or hat.
Marko Martijn, the contractor I was at odds with regarding the foundation work at the YellowRock.
Sauntering toward me, his shoulder-length dreadlocks swung back and forth in cadence with his strides. He stood several inches over six feet, large by Bonaire standards, and possessed the build expected of someone who worked with concrete blocks and cement all day. He leaned in, poked a dust-covered finger at my chest.
“I want my money, Conklin.”
Hairs on the back of my neck stood and adrenaline pulsed through my veins. I counted to ten.
“As soon as you finish the job.” I spoke in a low voice and maintained eye contact with him.
He moved closer, pumping his finger at my chest several more times. “Not good enough.”
Arabella stepped partway behind his left side, out of his direct line of sight.
“Best I can do,” I said.
His lower jaw quivered. “You think you are pretty funny, right?”
I smiled. “I have my moments.”
“You do not have many friends on this island.”
“Well, at least we have each other.”
“Pay me.”
I leaned against the hood of the Wrangler and placed a foot on the fender. Hands in my lap, I sighed, and studied him.
“You will see what happens to people who cheat me,” he said.
“Is that a threat?” Arabella said.
I put up a hand, palm facing her, and mouthed the word “no.”
Martijn cranked his neck, looked at her for an instant, then back at me. “Ha. Your woman cop. I do not give a shit about any of that.” He spat on the ground near my feet. “Remember. Pay me or else.” He leaned into me, his nose a scant few inches from mine.
“I’m really easy to get along with,” I said, “once you learn to see things my way.”
“You haven’t seen the last of me.” His warm breath had a hint of stale tobacco mixed with coffee.
“Hope not. Wouldn’t want to lose another friend.”
After glaring at me for a few seconds, he turned and walked to his truck. He opened the door, turned back pointing a finger at me, then drove away.
“We have had problems with him before,” Arabella said. “Want me to do something?”
“No, don’t bother.” Marko Martijn didn’t make my short list of concerns and problems. “I need to get a couple of things done today, so I’ll see you later.”
Arabella narrowed her brow. “Like what?”
I drew in some air, long and slow. “I’ll make a few phone calls to Rockford. But I have to be at the airport this afternoon to—”
“That is right. Your old girlfriend is coming for a visit. I cannot wait to meet her.”
“What is it with you and Erika? Tiffany is an old friend, not an old girlfriend.”
“Okay. If you say so.” Her smile was persistent. “When are we all getting together?”
“I’m not sure we will.”
She laughed. “Oh, I know we will. Call you later.”
I got in my Wrangler, started the motor, and, in a fit of adolescent showmanship, spun my tires in the gravel leaving the road shoulder. I caught Arabella in the rearview mirror. She smiled and got in her car.
A few moments later, my cellphone pinged. Arabella had sent a selfie.
Below the picture, it read Just 4 U.
&
nbsp; CHAPTER 5
SHOWERED AND WITH a beer and ham sandwich in hand, I plopped into my office desk chair. I wore a clean pair of khaki cargo shorts and a dark blue Longtail T-shirt from Duluth Trading Company. Sandals and no socks. My daily attire since moving to the island.
Erika sat at her desk, punching away on her keyboard, doing whatever it is she does. The main door was latched open, and a gentle breeze pushed fresh Caribbean air through our work area, forcing Erika to employ her stapler as a part-time paperweight. The blinds on the front window were positioned for sunlight to burst through, causing a glare on my seldom-used computer screen. The hum of midday traffic and bits of conversations filtered into the office.
I chewed a bite of sandwich and leaned back. Finding something better to do—anything—would be easy. But my promise to Arabella hung over me. I needed to make some calls that, hopefully, would appease her while satisfying bits of my own curiosity as well. Tourists wandered past the open door, their laughter and overly-exposed-to-the-sun skin forcing me to concentrate hard on the task at hand.
No need to search for the number to the Rockford Police Department headquarters. It was as fresh in my mind as it had been the day of my retirement. The switchboard operator answered, and I asked for Larry Penn, who worked in the Violent Crimes Division. We had always gotten along well, and I was sure he owed me a favor.
Larry claimed to be from Arkansas and wanted people to call him by both his first and middle names, implying a multi-generational, Southern tradition of some sort. In a thick, overly emphasized Southern drawl, he had told many a waitress, “Darlin’, a Southern gentleman is always known by his first and middle names.”
I needed his help, so best to indulge him.
He answered on the second ring. “Penn.”
“Larry David, its R. Conklin.” He didn’t say anything. After a moment, I said, “Larry, I have a favor to ask.”
“Figured as much. I know Traverso talked to you.” His voice cracked, and he paused. Larry possessed an engineering degree and had modified his office chair to recline further than usual. I pictured him leaned back as we talked, tossing a 2016 World Series Chicago Cubs autographed baseball in the air and catching it in his hand. It’s how he handled stress.
He started to say something, but hesitated, his voice cracking again. After another moment, he continued. “What can I do for you?”
I was sure he already knew. “Can you send me the pictures? Paperwork? I’ll take anything you got.”
“The whole file? Man, Traverso will have my ass.”
“Traverso doesn’t have to know.”
“Yeah. But …” His voice trailed off. “Anything else instead?”
“I want to see them.”
He paused a moment and moaned a few times. He threw in a “Jeez” and “Shit” for good measure. “Alright, I’ll try.” He sighed heavily into the phone. “Email?”
“That’d be great.” I gave him my email address. “Are you sending them now?”
“Christ, R, I’m not a fricking magician. I’ll have to send them from my personal computer, so it’ll probably be later this evening.”
“Okay. Thanks, Larry. I appreciate it.”
“If I do this, and I’m not saying I’ll be able to, you owe me. Big-time!”
“Sure, anything.” I decided to push further. “Can you include the coroner’s report, too?”
“While we’re at it, want to know who killed Kennedy? Or maybe where Hoffa’s buried?”
“Larry David—”
“I need to go. Talk to you later.”
He didn’t hang up right away, nor did I. We both felt the pain, neither of us knowing what to say. After a few quiet moments, he disconnected.
CHAPTER 6
I LEANED ON my Wrangler, drinking a beer in the parking lot of Bonaire’s Flamingo International Airport. A light gray overcast failed to block the scorching rays of the afternoon sun. Three miles out, over the sea, the outline of a 737 on final approach cut through the afternoon haze, accented by the glare of the jet’s landing lights.
Tiffany’s previous trip to Bonaire clouded my thoughts. Like a sappy flick on the Lifetime Movie Network, frame by frame, it rolled through my mind. My heart raced with anticipation, butterflies bouncing off the inside of my stomach.
Not to mention the new boyfriend, whom I hadn’t met. No clue what to expect from him.
As the jet taxied to the ramp, I finished my beer and meandered my way across the small parking lot to the open-air main terminal. No need to hurry—it’d take several minutes for them to clear immigration, customs, and retrieve their luggage. I bought a beer at the bar and waited.
Bill and Marybeth’s murders happened yesterday morning, so it was possible Tiffany didn’t know. With last-minute packing and travel preparations, she might not have watched the news. She’d never been one for news-watching, anyway, content with not knowing, for the most part, what happened in the world. Something to be said for that.
Her demeanor would let me know whether or not she knew, so I’d play it by ear about whether to say anything right away. She deserved to know, but I didn’t want to ruin her vacation immediately. Details were scant, and hopefully, in a day or so, there’d be more information from Traverso or Penn—maybe a motive or a lead on a suspect—something to help put this in perspective.
I shook my head. Retirement should’ve meant I didn’t have to deliver news like that anymore, especially not to a friend.
I reached into my pocket and fished out a piece of paper Erika had given me on my way out the door. She had scribbled the name of another guest arriving on this flight. This person had made plans of their own to get to the YellowRock, so I didn’t need to meet or transport them. Not sure why Erika gave me the name, but sometimes Erika’s ways were confusing to me.
The guest’s name was Mandy W. Driver.
The name “Mandy” brought back memories. A long time ago, I dated a girl named Mandy. I liked her, but we were together for only a short time, and I couldn’t remember her last name. One afternoon she wised up, grabbing her coat, and slamming the door on her way out as she described in full detail what she thought of me and where I could stick my opinions.
Maybe this Mandy was her, and she had seen the error of her ways. Had she tracked me down to tell me what a mistake she’d made all those years ago? Maybe beg my forgiveness? Tell me that my opinions did matter?
I put the paper back in my pocket. Not likely.
Tiffany walked through the doors separating the luggage area from the main lobby. I chugged the last of my Bright and left the bar, walking in her direction. She strolled across the terminal, her head swiveling back and forth until our eyes locked. She waved. I waved back.
“Roscoe!” she yelled.
A colorful, yet worn, Rockford College T-shirt half covered her spandex shorts. Swept by the wind, her delicate, dark hair lay loose on her shoulders, and the tone of her skin disclosed a distant Hispanic heritage. She had midnight dark eyes and a petite nose, and if my math was correct, she was thirty-three years old. Whereas Erika sometimes felt and acted like my big sister, Tiffany played the role of my little sister. Biologically, I’d never had either.
She dropped her luggage and jumped into my arms. I didn’t resist. She kissed me on the cheek, and we hugged again. Finally, after what felt like a full minute, I sat her down.
“It’s great to see you,” she said. “I’ve been looking forward to this for a long time.”
No mention of Bill and Marybeth—so she didn’t know. Good, and bad.
“I’m glad you’re here.” I looked her over. “How was your flight?”
“It was good.” She smiled, and her cheeks flushed a little. “I slept most of the way.”
Being fixated on Tiffany, I hadn’t noticed a guy next to her until she put her arm around him. Must be the mysterious boyfriend. He stood a couple of inches taller than me; his polo shirt stretched tight across his shoulders, chest, and biceps. He had short brown hai
r and brown eyes. I guessed him to be Tiffany’s age or a few years older.
Tiffany gestured toward him. “Roscoe, this is Lester Jeffrey. The guy I emailed you about.” She leaned in close to me and lowered her voice. “Isn’t he gorgeous?”
I stuck out my hand. “Good to meet you, Lester. I’m Roscoe Conklin. You can call me R.”
He smiled and shook my hand, squeezing it harder than necessary. First impressions are lasting impressions. If he wanted to start a macho-guy competition, he’d barked up the wrong tree.
“Wow, that’s some handshake,” I said, rubbing my hand to help the circulation return. “First time to Bonaire, Lester?”
“Yes.”
“He learned to scuba last summer,” Tiffany said. “He’s only made a few dives and never in the ocean.” She leaned into me again and, again, lowered her voice. “I may ask you to join us on some dives, just to be on the safe side.”
“Well,” I said with a brief glance at Lester, “I have a trip set up for us tomorrow. My buddy Jan will be taking us out on his boat.”
“Sounds great,” Tiffany said.
I studied Lester’s face. “What happened to your nose?”
Lester shrugged.
“Winter in northern Illinois,” Tiffany said. “He slipped on the ice getting out of his car yesterday morning and cracked his nose on the door. The doctor said it’s not broken, but badly bruised.” She touched Lester’s arm, and he flinched. “The day before we leave on vacation. Such bad luck.” She eased up on her toes and kissed him on his neck, but he turned his head away from her. She sighed and looked at me, then snapped her fingers. “I have something for you, Roscoe.” She knelt, unzipped her checked luggage, and began rummaging through it.
“Jeez,” Lester said to Tiffany, shaking his head. Then to me, “Where do I pick up our rental truck?”
I stared at him a moment. If they had a rental truck reserved, they didn’t need a ride from the airport. Again, Erika’s ways sometimes confused me.
“Over there,” I said, pointing at a one-story, white building on the other side of the parking lot. Lester began walking toward the building. “I’ll load your luggage into my Wrangler while you get your truck.”
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