Under Pressure
Page 21
I left Harrigan standing in the rain at the door of the warehouse. He nodded, water dripping from the brim of his Stetson, and then disappeared inside. I headed over to SeaSail. The best lead I had in Frett’s murder was the owner of the mangroves at Paraquita Bay, where Frett’s body had been found. O’Brien would know the owner and where I could find him. I wondered if O’Brien or any of the other charter owners had heard rumors about the bay.
I also wanted to check on O’Brien. When it came to his boats, he would lose all judgment. I wanted to make sure he didn’t do anything stupid with the storm approaching.
When I got to the SeaSail marina, every slip was full. Between each pier and the next, at least a dozen boats were rafted together with tires tied between to keep them from smashing into one another when hurricane winds blasted into the shore. Booms were down and lashed to decks and the marina was alive with people, charterers unloading gear in the rain and dockhands carting equipment through increasingly deep puddles and into storerooms.
It had been even worse when I’d driven through town. People were scurrying to board up the windows of their businesses and homes. The grocery stores had sold out of bottled water and canned goods and every hotel on the island was filling up with sailors taking refuge on land.
I found O’Brien on C Dock, fueling up one of his speedboats. He saw me coming. I knew by the look in his eyes that last night had not been just an intermission from the fight.
“Let’s talk when this storm is over,” he said.
“Yes, after it’s over and everyone is safe,” I agreed.
When I asked him about the owners of the mangroves, O’Brien knew exactly where I could find them.
“They live just around the breakwater there,” he pointed. “Can’t see the house from here. It’s an old stone structure back behind the mangroves. Why?”
I told O’Brien about the bad gas, that the crash had been accidental, that Kiersted did not bring the plane down, that his confession was bogus, and that I didn’t believe he’d had anything to do with Frett’s murder. “The property owners are a lead,” I said. “They knew Enok Kiersted, and Frett’s body was found over there. I need to talk with them.”
“That old couple. I doubt that they know anything,” O’Brien said as he finished topping off the boat’s gas tank and replaced the nozzle on the pump. Then he started throwing gear into the boat.
“What are you doing, O’Brien?” I asked, realizing that he was getting ready to take the speedboat out.
“Not all the boats have made it in. I’ve got one stranded out there. They were up in the Spanish Virgin Islands and sailed out of the anchorage at Culebra early this morning for Tortola. Culebra is not the place to be in hurricane winds and even though they were sailing against the wind and waves, they should have been able to make it into Road Harbour by noon.”
“So what happened?” I asked.
“They radioed in. They lost their engine. They’ll never make it in with just the sails. They were too far out to radio SeaSail, so they called Saint Thomas on their VHF. Saint Thomas relayed the call to me. There’s no one else who can go. Besides, they’re my responsibility. I’ve got their GPS coordinates. The chase boat is fast. I can make it out there in a couple of hours. I’ll be back by six, seven at the latest.”
This was sounding all too familiar. O’Brien’s parents had died rescuing some charterers who had gotten caught out in a hurricane. They’d motored out with one of their boat handlers, gotten the people off the chartered sailboat and into O’Brien’s parents’ speedboat, and had the boat handler motor the charterers into the nearest harbor. His parents had tried to weather it out on the sailboat. They were never found.
“Jeez, O’Brien. You think my job puts me in harm’s way. What about you? I don’t want you to end up like your parents.”
“I’ll be fine. I can’t leave them out there. Besides, they’ve got kids on board. I’ll be out and back long before the storm hits. If it continues on its projected path with the current wind speeds, it will be another twelve hours—sometime around midnight.
“Don’t go out there, O’Brien,” I said, even though I knew I was wasting my breath.
***
I found the house at Paraquita Bay right where O’Brien said it would be, hidden at the edge of the trees. The old man was on a ladder, nailing boards to the roof. He saw me coming, stood, and brushed off his gray coveralls. He was shirtless and thin rivers of water streamed down his chest and left streaks of dirt. He had to be seventy, his hair a coarse white. The garden was small, probably just large enough to feed him and his wife, who was working to protect a row of beans. I introduced myself and told him I was with the Tortola PD.
“Come in outta dis rain,” his wife insisted and led the way into the house, a tumbledown structure that had to be a hundred years old. I wondered how many hurricanes it had survived and whether it could possibly withstand the next.
Inside was damp, dark, and old, but spotless. The floor was linoleum and worn by scrubbing, the pattern cleaned right out in places. A green sofa with delicate embroidered doilies on the arms graced one wall under a print of the Last Supper. A TV with rabbit ears was situated in the corner on one of those wooden spools that most people replaced by the time they reached thirty and could afford real furniture.
The kitchen spanned the other wall, with an old electric stove, a refrigerator, and white metal cabinets decorated with aged stickers of roses. There was another room in the back behind a curtain. I assumed it was the bedroom. I’d seen an outhouse out beyond the bean rows.
The old woman was tiny, with skin like cracked leather, fingers bent and arthritic, a smile I was betting was the same as it had been at eighteen.
There were signs that kids once inhabited the house—family photos, a dusty plastic trophy, a faded red rocking horse. Clearly, it had been decades since a kid had lived here. The house and the people in it had an abandoned feel. For some reason, it made me think of Simon and my heart sank a little.
They handed me a towel to dry my face and directed me to a chair at the kitchen table. The old woman poured iced tea and placed cookies neatly on a chipped china plate. Finally, everything in order, they joined me at the table.
When I asked them about the property, I got the entire history. They told me the house and the mangroves had been in the family for generations. Their kids had spent hours playing among the trees and in the muck. “Come home caked with mud and smelling like yesterday's garbage,” the woman said, smiling at the memory. “One of da kids died when he be just a little one. Other two be livin’ in New York City.”
“When Conrad Frett come by askin’ us if we be wantin’ to sell da land, we be real surprised,” the old man said. “Ain’t nobody never showed no interest in dat swamp. Me and da wife, we talked it over. Why we be wantin’ to keep dis here tumbledown house and a tangle of trees I be askin’ her. She not be likin’ da idea, but I tole her we be gettin’ too old to tend da garden and keep da house. Kids won’t never be back, so we decide okay.
“Right away Frett be sayin’ he have some foreigner wants ta buy. He said he be makin’ sure da deal would be approved. But he don tole me not to be mentionin’ it to anyone. Said if word be gettin’ out dat he be approvin’ da sale, da charter folks be puttin’ da pressure on to stop it. Dey like havin’ dat lagoon during hurricanes.”
“Do you know who was interested in buying or why they wanted to buy?”
“Frett didn’t say. Was keepin’ it a big secret. Can’t see why anyone be wantin’ dat property though.”
I could. It was a prime location. Right on the edge of Road Town, right on the water. They’d tear out the mangroves, bring in a bunch of sand, and it would be considered prime real estate. I was surprised that O’Brien or some of the other charter company owners hadn’t gotten wind of it.
“Dat Enok Kiersted came by askin’ ‘bout who dos folks be out in da lagoon. I be lettin' Enok into da mangroves whenever he be wantin’ to do dat research of his. He sometim
es be out dar from dawn to dark.”
“He be a nice boy,” the old woman said. “Always be bringin’ something—fruit, flowers. Brought dem pretty doilies for my birthday.”
“Enok, he be seein’ Frett and some other folks out in the mangroves a coupla times over da past weeks,” the old man said. “He be askin’ if I knew what dey be up to. I sure didn’t like lyin' to dat boy, but I did like Frett said. I didn’t say nothin'.”
“When did you see Frett last?”
“Dat woulda been da day I showed him da boundaries of da land. Met him at da fancy new café on Wickham’s Cay. He be der with a American.”
“You remember what day that was?”
“Dat be Friday afternoon.”
“Did you know the American?”
“Think he be some kinda politician. Heard Frett call him Senator.”
“The senator didn’t go with you?”
“Nope. He be sittin’ at da café drinkin’ some kinda foamy coffee, espresso dey be callin’ it, when we be leavin’. Frett said he’d be callin’ da senator and dat he should be gettin’ the application in order.”
“So it was just you and Frett checking out your property?”
“Yeah, but der be a boat out der driftin’ in the lagoon. Got da feelin’ dey be watchin’.”
“Could you see who was on the boat?”
“Not really. It be kinda far out.”
“Were they islanders?”
“Naw, white folks for sure.”
“What did they look like?”
“You know, like all da rest. One of ‘em had a baseball cap pulled down over his eyes, wearin’ shorts, a T-shirt. He be taller dan da other one. Dat coulda been a woman.
“What about the boat? Do you know what kind it was? Did you see a name on it?”
“Dat be one fancy speedboat, dat for sure. Couldn’t see no name.”
“Did you notice anything else at all about the boat? Color? Markings?”
He described it as sleek and expensive with two huge engines, dark with a yellow stripe on each side.
“Do you think they were with Frett?” I asked.
“Dat one thing I be sure of. Frett don rode over here with me from da café. When we be done lookin’ at da property, he said he be goin’ to look around a bit. I be walkin’ back to da house when I see dat boat pull up to shore. Frett be gettin’ in.”
“Did you see where they went?”
“Dey be cruisin’ da shoreline along da mangroves. Last time I be seein’ dem, dey be turnin’ into one of da little inlets. Don’t know why day go in dar. Place got lotsa roots ta catch a propeller on. Lotsa bugs.”
“What time was that?”
“’Bout three in da afternoon.”
“Did you see Frett again?”
“Nope. Seems like he be satisfied ‘bout dem boundaries. He be sayin’ he be callin’ about signin’ da papers. We be goin’ to meet sometime on Saturday. He never be callin’. Now I be hearin’ he dead.”
I was sure that Frett had never left the lagoon until I’d pulled him out of the mangroves yesterday.
“You think dat sale be off?” the old man asked. “Keep hopin’ dat buyer be gettin’ in touch. Frett said all da licenses don be approved. Just need ta be signin’.”
“I don’t know,” I said, hesitant to destroy hope.
“Dat be just fine with me,” the old woman said, walking me to the door. “I be livin’ here mos my life. Don’t know where be any better.”
Good, I thought as I walked to the car. I was glad the old woman was just as happy not to sell because I was sure that whoever had been interested in that land would not be calling. Things had gotten way out of control and they had killed Frett, probably Kiersted too. The airplane crash had complicated things somehow. I had no idea how it figured in. I just knew it did.
Frett had probably been dumped in the mangroves on Friday afternoon. Why murder him if he was integral to the sale? I was sure he was taking bribes. Maybe he wanted more? Or maybe he was threatening exposure? But killing him had probably killed the deal. Why not just go along till things were finalized? Then Saturday morning the plane had gone down.
Right now the only leads I had were that boat the old man had seen and Jack Westbrook. He had met Frett right before Frett had gone to the mangroves and disappeared. I found a phone just down the road at a little grocery store and tried Dunn again. Still no answer.
I didn’t want to spend the rest of the day looking for a speedboat with a yellow stripe along the side, but I knew who would. When I called the office, Jimmy picked up the phone. He told me that Stark had still not returned and no one else was around.
“What are you doing, Jimmy?” I asked. I had the feeling he’d been napping. If there wasn’t something intense going on, Jimmy tended to get bored. Typical kid.
“Just hanging out,” he said, yawning into the phone.
He was happy to spend the rest of the day out looking for the boat. I gave him the description. He’d take the Wahoo and cruise through the harbors near Road Town, then head over to the West End, check out Cane Garden Bay and Soper's Hole.
“Why you lookin’ for that boat?” he asked.
“Just a lead. It probably won’t go anywhere. If you see it, I want you to simply get the name of the boat. I absolutely do not want you approaching anyone until we find out who they are. Got it?” I knew how the kid was—too anxious to get involved and still too young to realize he was mortal.
“Sure, no problem,” he said.
“I mean it, Jimmy. I’ll call you at the office later.”
I needed to find out more about Westbrook. I wanted to know why he was having lunch with Frett the day Frett disappeared. Maybe there was a whole lot more involved here than Westbrook simply being determined to buy land with or without his wife’s approval. I’d disliked Jack Westbrook since that first encounter in the hospital when he’d been poking his finger at Dunn and demanding an explanation for my leaving his wife in the water.
I’d been willing to entertain the idea that he’d been ruthless enough to bring a whole plane down to kill his wife. Now that it was clear the crash had been accidental, that obviously wasn’t the case. Still, I wouldn’t put it past the guy to kill either Frett or Kiersted. Again, the question was why? With Westbrook, it would have to be about money and power.
***
Frett’s secretary was on her way out for a late lunch when I got back to the government building.
“Why don’t you join me? I’m going around the corner to the Mongoose,” she said.
“Sure,” I said, even though the old woman’s iced tea and cookies still slogged in the pit of my stomach.
The Mongoose was packed in spite of the impending storm. Most people weren’t taking cover yet. I could hear the chatter and conjecture. Some optimists in the restaurant still believed it was going to veer off. Others were sure it would be the worst hurricane to hit in decades. Most had been through enough of them to know that anything could happen.
Customers proceeded through the line, heaping plates with goat stew, jerk chicken, and conch fritters. I opted for coffee and we found a place in the corner. This was a good place for casual conversation. I hoped that Frett’s secretary didn’t have some silly notion that licensing approvals were strictly confidential. She didn’t. In fact, she was willing to tell me anything I wanted to know. And she clearly didn’t like Westbrook.
“He came in right after you left and picked up the final paperwork for the property he’s buying. All he cared about was whether Mr. Frett had had a chance to sign the license before he died. Didn’t have one word of condolence. That man thinks the world revolves around him and his doings.”
“What property was it?” I asked, sure it would be the mangroves at Paraquita Bay.
“It’s that big house out near Soper’s Hole. The man can’t wait to get his hands on it. He was worried that someone else would buy it before he could get the necessary licenses. Paying a big price too.”
“I’m sure. Why would a big senator want that piece of swamp?”
“Someone was looking at it,” I said. “Do you have any idea who?”
“Mr. Frett never mentioned it to me. I’m the one who types up all the final forms. Never saw any paperwork for that property down there.”
“Surely you saw or heard something.” I knew that she was no dummy. I was betting nothing went on in Frett’s office that she didn’t know about.
“I did hear him arguing on the phone with someone about that property.”
“Do you know who it was?”
“Only that it was a woman. I took the call and transferred it to Mr. Frett.”
“What did you hear?”
“I don’t want to say nothing bad about the dead. Mr. Frett was a good boss,” she said, pushing her food around with her fork.
“Maybe what you tell me will help find his killer,” I said.
“Well, I wasn’t eavesdropping, mind you. His door was cracked open a bit.”
“Sure. I understand that you wouldn’t do that.”
Satisfied that I was not going to condemn her, she said, “He was telling her how much that property would be worth. He said he’d been getting calls from the chief minister and he was putting his career on the line by helping them. Anyone who looked at things closely would see that he should not have approved the transfers. He said he wanted more money.”
“When was this call?” I asked, knowing this was why Frett had died.
“Friday, right before he left.”
Chapter 29
Jimmy was sitting in my chair looking smug when I got back to the office. It had taken him all of a half hour to find out about the boat that the old man had seen in the lagoon. He was a little disappointed that it hadn’t involved racing in and out of the harbors of Tortola and questioning every dockhand, fisherman, and sailor he encountered. Today he’d have been skipping that boat across six- to seven-foot waves.