“It’s my neighbor, Malfena.” She removed her hands from her face, tears working their way down her red cheeks.
A knot balled in the pit of my stomach as my throat went dry. “Yes, Malfena Cado.” I handed her another tissue. “What’s going on?”
“She’s dead.” Her sobbing was frantic, and she put her face back into her hands.
My heart raced. I was speechless. The knot in my stomach grew to the size of a basketball. “How can that be? What happened?”
“That was my friend. He works at the fire department. They found a car on fire in the Playa Frans area.” She controlled herself for a few seconds, her eyes becoming bloodshot. Her lower jaw fluttered, and the ends of her eyebrows sagged. “They found Malfena burned to death in the car.” She lowered her head as tears continued to flow.
Erika cried, and I was silent, trying to absorb the news.
“Was it her car?” I asked.
“She did not have a car.”
That’s right. Nor a driver’s license.
I gave Erika a hug. “Go home. Be with Malfena’s family. They’re going to need lots of friends right now.”
“Probably so.” She stood and gathered her things.
“You alright to drive?” I asked.
She stared at me a moment. “I am fine.” She paused before walking out the door and half-turned back toward my desk. “First Tiffany. Now Malfena.”
She was close. The correct order was Bill and Marybeth, then Tiffany, now Malfena, but I didn’t correct her.
She wiped her eyes with the tissue. “What is happening?”
CHAPTER 38
I HATED LEAVING the office unattended during the day but needed to drive to the scene of Malfena’s car fire. My cell number was posted on the outside of the building near the office door. If a guest needed me, they could call. I’d miss Penn if he checked in, but I had to chance it.
Outside the building, I took a quick glance at the parking lot, hoping to see the truck with a seahorse on the tailgate. No such luck, so I walked to Lester’s unit and knocked. No answer. I used my passkey to open the door and call his name. No response.
Next, I went to Mandy’s unit and knocked. No answer there either. Again, I used my passkey and opened the door, and, just like at Lester’s place, no response when I called her name. I shut and locked the room door, then headed toward my Wrangler.
Sliding behind the steering wheel, I immediately froze. A drill lay on the passenger seat. It held a bit the size of the hole in my battery, the one Kevin had shown me.
Concrete dust and dirt covered the drill, along with multiple handprints, fingerprints, and dirt smudges. If it was the drill used to put a hole in my battery—and I believed it was—no attempt had been made to clean it or wipe away evidence. On the visible side of the drill, in bold black letters, was printed M+M.
I turned my head back and forth and peered through all the Wrangler’s windows. Numerous people on the beach, random tourists meandering past, and a few customers sipping their expresso on the outdoor patio of the coffee shop a few doors down. Not a hint of anyone nearby who might’ve placed a dirty drill on my front seat. For whatever reason, the police department hadn’t seen fit to install street cams this far south of the downtown district.
I could canvass the area and ask anyone nearby if they’d seen someone lurking around my Wrangler. Unlikely they would’ve. The windows were always open, so the Wrangler was an easy target. Who would notice someone walking by, reaching in, and putting an object on the seat? It’d only take a few seconds to do, and I had no idea when it happened—could’ve been any time this morning or last night.
The coffee shop down the street had a security camera mounted on the building over the front door. I doubted it viewed more than twenty-five to thirty feet out, just enough to watch and record activity on the front patio. The Wrangler was far outside its scope.
Again, my instincts—and training—told me to drive straight to the police station and turn the drill over to Schleper’s team. However, I still wasn’t convinced the cops were serious about the sabotage.
Marko Martijn hadn’t attacked me, but that’s not to say he hadn’t coaxed one of his workers or buddies to do it. A visit would be the last thing he’d be expecting, and his reaction could prove interesting. I might get some answers. Or, depending on Marko’s response, get the crap knocked out of me again.
Right now, though, I needed to get to the scene of the car fire. Confronting Marko would have to wait. I didn’t touch the drill and pulled out of the lot, headed north.
Playa Frans was on the northernmost part of the island, well past the Karpata dive site. Remote and desolate, its only inhabitants were wild donkeys, roaming iguanas, and a few lonely fishermen. Cacti and sage grass comprised the hard landscaping, and the roads were a mixture of dirt, ruts, and rock—difficult driving, even on a good day. It wasn’t the type of spot where a person would end up by accident.
I could take either of two routes. Both required the same amount of drive time, and I opted for the one that went past Karpata and Cado Snack, the same road Lester and I had used the night we discovered Tiffany’s body. Not sure if I would stop, but a quick glance couldn’t hurt.
Because it was before noon, an active time for tourists, the drive took longer than I had expected. The one-lane road winds north along the coast and is a primary thoroughfare for divers and snorkelers wanting access to the northern dive sites. As such, tourists crossing the road, slowing to park, or meandering along the roadside taking in the scenic vista and views slowed my progress several times.
I sped past Karpata, craning my neck to see as much as possible. The rear door to Cado Snack was open, swaying in the breeze, the place having every appearance of being vacant.
Farther north, I pulled onto a dirt road. Referring to it as a road, however, was generous and an insult to other roads. Comprised of hard-packed dirt and large sections of slate unearthed over time by wind and rain, it was more of a trail. Bumping up and down in first or second gear, the Wrangler was the perfect vehicle for this terrain, but I still needed to be careful. Concerned about hitting a large hole and bottoming out, possibly breaking an axle, I steered from side to side avoiding the deeper ruts and slabs of rock. It reminded me of the old show Daktari, except for not being in Africa and the side of my Wrangler not having zebra stripes.
The jarring eventually knocked everything to the floor, including the drill. Even the glove box sprung open; most of the contents spilling onto the floorboard. Glad to be in the Wrangler. An average car would be hard pressed to handle this road.
After ten minutes of bouncing, the road spilled into a clearing where, along the edge, two squads and a fire truck had parked. Worse than the smell of the dumpster and Richter’s Garage combined, a thick, acrid odor enveloped the area, a combination of burned oil, gas, rubber, and plastic. Yellow barrier tape surrounded the charred remnants of a small vehicle, the ground black and sooty, soaked with water.
I drove around a large rut, slowing to a stop, and parked along the clearing’s edge, as an ambulance eased past and headed in the other direction. That had to be a bumpy ride, considering the Daktari road they were headed toward. I considered the burned shell of the car and wondered how it had gotten here in the first place.
An officer I didn’t recognize walked toward the Wrangler and held my door shut as I tried to open it. “Can I help you, sir?”
Arabella came alongside him. “It is okay. He is with me.” The officer gave me a quick glance, shrugged, and walked back to one of the squads.
As I opened the door and stepped out, Arabella grabbed me by the shoulder and turned me away from the scene. “Conklin, what are you doing here?”
“I wanted to see what happened.”
Arabella checked over her shoulder at the other officers, then turned back to me. She talked in a low voice, almost a whisper. I barely heard her over the commotion of the scene. “You should not be here. This does not concern you.”
<
br /> “Bella, I talked to Malfena yesterday, and now she’s dead.”
“I was told to say nothing to you about police business. Schleper is pissed at me right now. He will think I called you.”
I turned sideways and leaned against the door. “What was she doing way up here anyway?” I motioned toward the smoldering hunk of metal. “Whose car is that?”
Arabella shook her head. “I cannot tell you anything. Now, please leave.”
“You know Malfena didn’t have a license.”
Arabella folded her arms across her chest. “Of course we know that.”
“Then how does this happen? I spoke to her yesterday, and now she’s in a car dead, with no driver’s license, in the middle of nowhere.”
“Conklin!”
Our eyes locked. After a short moment, I realized she was right. Schleper would blame her for my presence. For her sake, I needed to leave. I opened the door, but before getting in, turned to ask one final question. “Did you tell Schleper what we discovered last night?”
She hesitated, pursed her lips. “Yes. But he has a theory of his own.”
“So, what is his theory?”
“Look, Conklin, I need you to—”
“Mr. Conklin.” Schleper had snuck up on us and stood in front of the Wrangler, hands on his hips. “You should leave. We do not need your assistance here. This is a police matter, and Officer De Groot has no information for you.” He folded his arms across his chest and narrowed his eyes at Arabella. “Is that correct?”
Arabella shot her own laser eyes at Schleper, but after a second, relaxed and hesitantly nodded.
I turned full around to face Schleper. “Don’t be a jerk, Schleper. This is bigger than you realize. You think this car spontaneously burst into flames? Up here, in the middle of nowhere?”
Jaw clenched, he walked around to the driver’s side and faced off with me, the open door between us. “Do I have to put you in jail?”
His less-than-fresh breath made me consider sending him a toothbrush next Christmas. Refusing to back down or be pushed around any longer, I took a half-step forward and breathed through my mouth. If going to jail proved my point, so be it.
Arabella stepped closer to me. “Conklin, it is not worth it.”
In my peripheral vision, I saw two officers walking our way. I took a deep breath, nodded at Arabella, and, retreating a step, lowered my shoulders.
“Just answer one thing, Inspector, and I’ll leave,” I said.
Stern-faced, he said, “Go ahead, ask your question.”
“What was she doing up here?”
He let out a sigh. “We believe it was suicide.”
“Suicide? You’ve got to be joking. Suicide by car fire?”
“Conklin, we found a note,” Arabella said.
Schleper snapped his head at her, his scowl as demeaning as his attitude. “That is right.” He looked back at me. “We found a note that claims she did this to herself.”
I let out a short laugh, not because any of this was funny, but because I didn’t know what else to do. Tension, I guessed. This conversation was ridiculous. “She didn’t have a license, for God’s sake. Who drove her? And whose car is it?”
“That will be part of our investigation,” Schleper said.
He motioned for me to get in the Wrangler. I got in but wasn’t ready to leave, not quite yet anyway. “Did Bella—I mean, Officer De Groot—explain to you what we discovered last night?”
“Yes, the officer and I talked this morning.”
Again, I laughed. “That’s not important to you?”
“Mr. Conklin, leave the investigating to us. You are retired. Start acting like it.” He tapped his hand twice on the roof of the Wrangler. “Now … leave.” He backed away and pointed toward the road.
Arabella looked away from me. I slapped the transmission into drive, made a small half circle, and headed back down the Daktari road. Leaving was best. For Arabella and for me. And for Schleper—I was ready to explode at him and that wouldn’t have been good. More problems for everyone.
Halfway back to Karpata, knowing I should wait, I phoned Arabella. She didn’t answer. No surprise. I disconnected when the call went to voicemail and redialed her number. Patience during an investigation had never been one of my virtues. “C’mon,” I yelled into the phone. She answered on the second ring.
“What!” Her voice pointed, but low. “You are going to get me in trouble.”
“Do you think it was suicide?” The question tumbled out, my mind working faster than my mouth.
“Conklin, we found a note.”
“What position was the body? How could she sit still and let herself be burned alive? It doesn’t add up.”
“Look, I will tell you something, but you have to promise not to call back.”
“Agreed.”
She sighed. “The body was found locked in the trunk.”
“What?”
She hung up, and I didn’t call back.
Suicide by fire, while locked in the trunk of a car that wasn’t hers.
I shook my head and pressed the accelerator. Going too fast for the conditions, it took a two-handed death grip on the wheel to keep the Wrangler under control. Priority one was getting back to Cado Snack. Turning off the dirt road onto the pavement, I increased my speed, tires squealing as I took the last curve and skidded to a stop in the gravel parking lot at Karpata.
Walking a full circle around the building, I didn’t see anything unusual. The rock and gravel landscape prevented footprints. I peered inside the door a few moments, allowing my eyes to adjust to the darkness. Nothing strewn about or out of place; everything stacked and neatly arranged on the shelves, same as the previous day. Boxes and supplies were stacked neatly against the walls. There were visible broom marks in the fine layer of dust on the wooden floor. I pulled on the front sliding window. Shut and locked.
The warm breeze rocked the door back and forth, never fully penetrating the opening. I used the front of my shirt to wipe the sweat from my brow and stood in the middle of the swept floor and organized shelves. I didn’t know what to make of the situation.
Malfena’s cooler contained two unopened bags of ice. I tipped it from side to side and noticed only a small amount of water move along the bottom. Tapping one bag with my fist, the hard edges of ice cubes poked at my skin. Malfena must’ve been here this morning. Yesterday, during her cleaning ritual, she emptied the ice water from the cooler and packed items in it to take with her. Those items were now on the shelves.
Suicides have a certain feel, and this one didn’t have that feel. How, after arriving to open her business for the day, did she get to Playa Frans? And what about the suicide note Schleper claimed to have?
Drumming my fingers on the counter, I stared out the open door into the sunlight. This couldn’t be a coincidence. Malfena’s death had something to do with either Tiffany or yesterday’s conversation with me. Had she seen more than she thought or could remember? Or was it simply a case of talking to me?
Either way, guilt swam through me, along with anger, thinking of Lester doing this to Malfena and Tiffany. I pounded my fist on the wall and leaned my head against the sliding window. I wanted all of this to have never happened.
After a moment, I straightened myself, took a deep breath, and headed for the doorway. An examination of the jamb showed no recent scrapes or pry marks and twisting the knob in my hand proved the mechanism worked correctly. The dead bolt was in the unlock position, and a key was needed to move it back and forth. Two more walks around the perimeter of the building revealed nothing of interest.
The sun beat down as I stood in front of the building staring at the hand-painted menu, as if by staring long enough some form of divine intervention would force an answer to materialize beneath the words “Amstel Beer 4$USD.”
A truckload of divers pulled into the parking lot, their laughs and yells bringing me back to the moment. I made sure none of them approached the building and dist
urbed anything. They were interested only in the sea and headed straight for the water with their gear.
I leaned against the hood of my Wrangler, pulled out my phone, and displayed Arabella’s number from the directory. Just before I pressed the call button, she and James pulled into the lot and parked.
James got out of the passenger side and stood behind the open door. I couldn’t see his gun hand but imagined it—as he had done at the morgue—resting on the handle of his weapon. Arabella got out of the driver’s side and walked over to me.
“Conklin,” she said with a deep sigh. “What are you doing here?”
I held my hands in a surrender fashion. “Just leaving.” I pocketed my phone and opened the Wrangler’s door. “Doubt you’ll find anything. The place is pretty clean.”
Arabella put her hands on her hips. James lowered his head.
“But you know,” I said, “I’d love to see that suicide note.”
James slammed the door and the truck rocked back and forth twice. Arabella folded her arms across her chest.
I drove away thinking about Malfena committing suicide by car fire.
Maybe now I had seen it all.
CHAPTER 39
I WAS SURE Malfena had seen Lester’s truck at Karpata but needed proof. Thoroughness required the other seahorse truck be excluded. I needed to talk with the renter and determine if they had been to Karpata lately. Arabella hadn’t given me the rental information yet, and I doubted she would anytime soon. I wasn’t brave enough to call her and ask, at least not for a few more hours. Her annoyance with me would pass. It always did.
Marko’s drill still lay on the Wrangler’s floorboard, and like Lester’s truck, was part of this mess. Bill had kept a wooden sign on his desk that read “Follow every lead, no matter how small.” I wanted to close the loop on the drill but considered the truck lead more critical. My confrontation with Marko would have to wait.
It took a little over an hour to drive through the parking lots of the major resorts and hotels. Remaining in first gear, the truck seemed to crawl along as I scrutinized the tailgates of white pickup trucks. In some instances, I had to get out and walk around to the back of each vehicle. It was the busy season on the island and, considering the significant number of open stalls in the lots, I assumed most of the guests were out and about.
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