“The air is smooth,” I said, “so just hold the yoke steady.”
People usually take the yoke with both hands, treating it like a car steering wheel during their initial days of Drivers Education class. Over the years, I had noticed that when someone did it one-handed, it’s most often with their dominant hand. Something about Lester’s left-handed grab of the yoke made me think about the crime scene pictures.
One of those photos showed a coffee mug sitting on the table alongside the newspaper. The vantage point of the picture was from the chair as if the photographer had been sitting at the table in front of the paper. The mug was to the left, with the handle pointing in the same direction. A lefthander would’ve set the cup in that position.
Bill and Marybeth were both right-handed.
“I don’t like this. You should fly,” Lester said and let go of the yoke, hands raised in a surrender fashion.
“Okay,” I said and took back control of the plane.
I worked the trim a notch to fine-tune our altitude as my mind drifted back to my first flight lesson. Bill had told me I was nuts wanting to be a pilot and said I’d die in a fiery crash. He saw no possible use for it; considered it dangerous and a waste of money.
“You can’t haul a lot of people, you can’t go far, and you can’t drink beer while doing it,” he would chastise. “So, what’s the point?”
But after I earned my license, and flew him and Marybeth to Sandusky, Ohio, for an extended weekend, Bill became one of my most frequent passengers. When other guys were spending their Saturday mornings fishing, mowing, or gardening, Bill and I would be cramped in a small airplane, slicing through the air, landing and exploring a different airport each weekend.
I’d never fly again without remembering him; sitting next to me, scanning the maps, ready to locate the next checkpoint. He was a good co-pilot.
A great friend.
“That’s impressive,” Lester finally said, snapping me back to reality.
The east coast of Bonaire, also known as The Wild Side, is the windward side of the island and the shoreline is more dramatic than the west. It consists of massive rock cliffs and drop-offs whereas the west side of the island—the leeward side—is much less rugged. Also, the wind sweeping in from the Atlantic on the east side creates large waves and surf, making boating and scuba difficult. By contrast, the sea off the west coast of Bonaire, protected from the wind by the island itself, has a nearly flat surface, perfect for water recreation. From the air, these distinctions left most passengers in awe.
“Is that a lighthouse?” Lester asked.
I dipped one side of the plane so that he could get a better look. “Yeah, it’s Spelonk Lighthouse.”
“With these special tires, could you land on that dirt road?” Lester asked.
He pointed at the road in front of the lighthouse, running parallel to the coast. Several times, Chuck had considered landing in that exact spot. From the air, it seemed as smooth as an airport runway, but I knew that to be an illusion. Having driven the road several times, I knew it’d be a harsh landing.
No bush-pilot auditions today.
I turned my head and looked over my shoulder at him. “Why?”
“Maybe for fun?”
“Nope, not my idea of fun.”
“We should at least try.”
“No, we shouldn’t.”
He squirmed in his seat and muttered something I didn’t hear. I was about to ask what he had said when he folded his arms across his chest, his entire body seeming to tighten.
I didn’t want a confrontation with him and counted to ten, focusing on the flight instruments for a few moments. Finally, not being able to stand it any longer, I asked him, “What’s the problem?”
He looked at the ground through the side window. “How well do you know Tiffany?”
“I’ve known her a long time.”
“Yeah, I guess you know her very well.”
I didn’t say anything.
“How long were you a cop?” he asked.
I assumed he knew the answer—that Tiffany had probably told him. But I indulged him anyway. Sort of. “Long enough.”
“Tiffany told me twenty-five years or something like that,” he said.
I didn’t say anything.
“All of it in Rockford, right?”
Again, this felt as though he were baiting me for some reason. For a fleeting moment, I considered pushing him out of the plane and scanned the horizon for a place to dump him. Lucky for Lester, the thought passed.
“Have you ever used anyone?” he continued. “As a cop, it would be easy to do, wouldn’t it?”
I bit the inside of my cheek, remaining silent. Red-faced and eyes narrowed, he turned from the window, straight at me, and leaned in my direction. In the small cockpit, our shoulders had been touching the entire ride. Now, he towered over me. Any closer and he’d be in my lap.
“How many times have you gotten away with that?” he asked. “How many people have you hurt? Lives you’ve ruined?”
No idea what he expected from me. I tried not to react but was sure my face painted a picture of confusion.
I didn’t have to like him, but being Tiffany’s boyfriend, I needed to tolerate him. “For Tiffany’s sake, let’s get along. Okay, Lester?”
“Yeah, right.” He resumed his stare out the side window, arms folded across his chest.
I’d had enough of this ride and banked the plane to the southwest, straight for the airport. I inched the throttle forward a few hundred RPMs, increasing our airspeed. The tower clearance was the only conversation for the remainder of the ride.
The landing was uneventful. I taxied to the parking area and exited the plane more abruptly than I should have, wincing from the pain that shot through my rib. Small price to pay to get away from Lester. After a few steps and clearing the overhead wing, I stood upright and stretched my side.
Lester fumbled his way out of the cabin, and I motioned for him to follow me across the tarmac to the security gate. He pushed through and made a beeline for his truck.
Not so much as thanks, see you later, or get lost.
CHAPTER 16
I FLOATED ON my back, hands behind my head, gazing up at the sky. The massaging effect of the salt water deadened the pain of my bruised rib, and I could’ve drifted like that till the next day.
Stars were twinkling to life, darkness waiting to overtake the island. A couple of schooners, moored at the edge of the reef, gently rocked in the light breeze, their masts casting long shadows across the glass-smooth water. A sliver of sun was visible on the horizon.
Arabella relaxed on the beach in a lounger. She had come by for my Dutch lesson, but we decided to answer the call of the sea and take a dip.
Before she arrived, I had checked the crime photos. The coffee cup was as I remembered, off to the left with the handle pointing left. Someone must’ve been sitting there using their left hand, but that didn’t mean the person was left handed. Maybe some right-handed people used their left to hold cups.
Four pelicans swung over the beach, flying in an orderly formation. A couple of divers exited the water, having finished a late afternoon dive. I hobbled out of the water, onto the beach, and made my way to the lounger next to Arabella.
“Can you rub some lotion on my back?” she asked.
“Why?” I pointed at the horizon. “The sun is almost gone.”
“Just a little?”
She was in no danger of sunburn. Arabella loved having her back rubbed, and I loved rubbing it, so I grabbed the tube and squirted a blob of lotion in my hand.
I began making small circles on her lower back. Gently, but with occasional mild force, I moved up her back and pressed my thumbs on the soft spot under her shoulder blades. I let my fingers find their way behind the strap of her suit.
She responded with a low moan, her respiration becoming more profound and audible. My breathing had changed as well. She closed her eyes and tilted her head, back arched
, pressing herself against me. I pulled her closer and kissed the back of her neck. She turned and pressed her lips hard against mine. Then we stood, gathered our lotion, towels, and water bottles, and walked toward my apartment.
As we crossed the street, Tiffany and Lester appeared from around the corner with a cooler.
“You two ready for some food?” Tiffany asked.
Arabella and I stole a glance at each other, both biting our lower lips.
“I guess so,” I said.
Arabella looked at me. “I am starved.”
Tiffany stepped up to Arabella and stuck out her hand. “I’m Tiffany. You must be Arabella. It’s great to meet you.”
“It is good to meet you, too.”
Arabella took Tiffany’s hand, but then stepped in close and did the customary Dutch three-kiss greeting, just like Jan had done. Afterward, Tiffany stepped back and half-smiled. She looked at me for reassurance, but all I did was pucker my lips at her.
Tiffany gestured toward Lester. “This is my boyfriend, Lester.”
Arabella started in with the three kisses again, but Lester stepped back, his features tightening. Arabella hesitated for a moment, then Lester extended his hand and she shook it. He looked at me and gave a cordial nod. For lack of anything better, I nodded back.
Lester handed me a brown paper bag. “Mandy is going to stop by later but asked me to give this to you now.”
I removed a bottle of Baileys Irish Crème from the bag and glanced at Tiffany.
She shrugged.
“You know Mandy?” I asked her.
“Oh … we’ve met,” she said.
“You okay?” I asked her.
“Sure she is,” Lester said. “Aren’t you, Tiff?”
“Like I said, whatever.” She rolled her eyes.
As a hint to move along, Arabella poked me in the rib, luckily, the not-bruised side. I led everyone upstairs, albeit slowly. Tiffany asked about the limp, and I gave her an abbreviated version of what had happened. Lester managed an enthusiastic chuckle during the part about me getting beat up. Otherwise, he stayed quiet.
“Don’t worry about diving with me,” Tiffany said.
“We’ll figure something out,” I said.
“Seriously, I’ll be fine.”
I held the door to the apartment open for everyone, then led Tiffany and Lester to the fridge for a beer, dropping my sunglasses on the kitchen counter. Arabella volunteered to go for the food and slipped into the bedroom to change clothes.
Hoping to give Tiffany and Lester a taste of the island, I called and placed a takeaway order, as it’s called on Bonaire, of kabritu stoba—goat stew with vegetables—and keshi yena—a variation of a Dutch cheese and chicken potpie. Tiffany liked sampling unique foods and would jump at the opportunity to try something new, but I wasn’t as sure about Lester.
I fired up bits of small talk about diving and whether Tiffany and Lester were enjoying Bonaire. Lester’s attitude was reserved. He said nothing and wandered around the apartment. Maybe he was embarrassed about our encounter at Vinny’s or during our flight—a ride I assumed Tiffany still didn’t know happened.
Lester wound up standing alone on the balcony holding a beer. I didn’t care if he drank it or not, or whether he had a good time or not. His attitude wouldn’t destroy my evening.
Arabella came out of the bedroom wearing a T-shirt with “Girls Like Guns, Too” printed on the front. The pocket linings on her blue-jean cutoffs hung below the edge of the frayed cut line. She wore my black RPD hat with her ponytail pulled through the back. She grabbed me behind my head, pulled me close, and kissed me hard.
“You have money for the takeaway?” she asked. I handed her a crinkled fifty, and she winked at me. “I will be back with the food soon.” A quick shake of her ponytail and she sauntered through the apartment to the veranda and down the stairs into the darkness.
None of us spoke.
After a few moments, Tiffany cleared her throat and said, “Arabella speaks English well.”
“Yes, she went to college in Florida and speaks several languages.”
“She seems nice.”
“She is. Very.”
Lester pointed down the hall.
“Down the hall and on your right,” I said.
He walked to the bathroom and closed the door. Tiffany peered down the hall, turned to me, and spoke. Her voice was low, and I had to lean in close to hear her. “Roscoe, there’s something I need to talk to you about,” she said.
“Okay, shoot.”
“No. Not here, not now.” She looked down the hallway again. “We’ll talk later. It’s important.”
Lester came around the corner from the hall. He resumed his quiet demeanor on the balcony, and Tiffany sat on the couch. They stared at each other for a moment, then he shrugged, and she looked away.
The old cliché about the tension being thick enough to cut with a knife came to mind. Hopefully, Arabella would arrive soon with our takeaway order. That should help.
Tiffany took a drink of beer and touched the frame of a picture sitting on the end table. “Which lighthouse is this?” she asked.
“That’s Spelonk,” I said. “It was built in 1910, before the advent of Loran or GPS, and marks the eastern edge of the island. It’s been refurbished and still puts out a white flash every five seconds to aid in navigation.”
“That sounds awesome,” Tiffany said.
Lester walked over and glanced at the picture. “Where’s it at?”
I snapped a gaze at him. He stared back at me.
“It’s on the east side of the island,” I said, shaking my head.
“I’ll bet it has a great view,” Tiffany said. “I’d like to see it. How do we get there, Roscoe?”
I tapped my fingers on the edge of the counter a few times then pulled a map from a drawer in the kitchen. Lester leaned over the map and scrutinized it as I pointed out the route to the lighthouse. Feigning ignorance, with eyebrows scrunched in concentration, he ran his fingers along the lines representing roads.
“Can I borrow this?” he asked.
“Think you need it?” I asked, hoping my sarcasm was palatable.
Lester slowly turned from the map to me. He lipped the words fuck you.
I laughed, folded the map, and handed it to him. “Keep it.”
“What’s so funny?” Tiffany asked.
“Nothing,” Lester said. “Just your old boyfriend trying to be a comedian.”
“Lester …” Tiffany said.
Lester raised an eyebrow and smiled at me in a way a barracuda might smile at a swarm of unsuspecting baitfish. Then, he put the map in his pocket and pointed to the corner of my living room. “Does that TV work?”
I hesitated, but with a shake of my head, gave in. “Sure does. It’s pretty old, but all I ever watch is an hour or so of WGN in the evenings.” WGN is the SuperStation out of Chicago and carried by the Bonaire cable provider. It’s close enough to Rockford that I pick up some local news and Illinois issues in general.
Tiffany walked over to the counter, lifted the bottle of Baileys, and gave me a sideways look.
“I don’t have coffee,” I said. “Never touch the stuff.”
“Then I’ll take it straight up.”
I set a clean glass on the counter and poured the Baileys. Tiffany picked up the cup with her left hand.
“You right-or left-handed?” I asked.
“Why do you ask?”
“Curiosity,” I said and smiled. “Just call it a friendly survey.”
“I’m a righty.”
Lester was holding his beer in his right hand. I moved my head in his direction. “What about Lester?”
“He’s a lefty. What’s going on?”
Grabbing my third Bright from the fridge, I said, “Just a bet I have with Chuck. Drunk guys being stupid. Nothing serious.”
I checked the wall clock and thought Arabella should’ve been back by now. Tiffany and I stood across the counter from each
other, the smell of Baileys drifting my way.
She took another sip and fixed her eyes on mine. A half-smile broke across her face. “What?” she said.
Telling her about Bill and Marybeth was overdue. I’d procrastinated long enough and now was the time. Lester could listen in if he wanted, but I didn’t plan to call him over. This was between Tiffany and me.
I sat my beer on the counter. “There’s something I need to tell you.”
“Okay.” Her smile disappeared. “Why do you look so serious all of a sudden?”
As if on cue, my cell rang. I ignored it, instead focusing on breaking the news to Tiffany. “I have some bad news. It’s about—”
My cell rang again. Thinking it might be Arabella, I looked at the number. Not Arabella. James Saragoza, her part-time patrol partner. He seldom called me, and never in the evening.
I held up a finger to Tiffany and answered the call.
“R … it is Arabella,” James said, his breathing rapid. A chill traveled down my neck as his voice cracked. “She had an accident and is in an ambulance, on the way to hospital.”
I ended the call and yelled a brief explanation to Tiffany as I headed for the stairs. She volunteered to come along, but I said no and that I’d call her later.
As I hit the first stair, the WGN anchor started a new story.
“And for an update, and some new developments, we go out to Rockford, and the murder, several days ago, of a retired police officer and his wife …”
CHAPTER 17
REGARDLESS OF MY ribs, I took the stairs two at a time. In the darkness, I tripped on the last one and almost fell on my face. An awkward stumble and I limped down the side of the building to my parking space in the back. A wave of distress overtook me, stopping me in my tracks.
My Wrangler was gone.
Arabella must’ve taken it. She had my spare key, and we sometimes shared vehicles, but usually told each other when we did.
I pounded my hand on top of her car. She didn’t know about the brakes.
Fumbling in the darkness with my key chain, I eventually found the one to Arabella’s car. I dropped into the Toyota’s driver seat and slid it back as far as it’d go. The engine gauges sprang to life as I turned the ignition key, and I immediately understood why Arabella had taken my Wrangler.
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