I glance down at my watch. It’s getting late. Or early, depending on your perspective. For now, I’m pretty sure I’ve exhausted everything I can from the undercover FBI man, while doing pretty well at keeping just what I know hazy. I still don’t trust him. A Russian could just as easily fake a Brooklyn accent as an American could a Moscow one.
“All right,” I say, standing to my feet. I motion for him to do the same. “Time to lock you in the Vault.”
“Wait, what?”
“You want to keep your cover intact, don’t you?”
He nods.
“Well, I’ve made a general mess here tonight. I’ve stolen a gun, ransacked desks, and broken the lock to the Vault. You might have replaced it, but it won’t take along for someone to see it’s not the same one that Monday bought. That means there’s been an intruder here. An intruder you failed to see or apprehend.”
“Okay.”
“Now, how’s that going to look if you’re just standing here when Monday and Lamont show up in the morning?”
I can practically see understanding dawning on the G-Man’s face.
“And that also means, I’m truly sorry.”
“For what?” he asks.
I rear my right hand back and swing it as hard as I can against his jaw. He stumbles back, holding his now bleeding lip with his hands.
“…the heck did you do that for?” he shouts at me.
I grin. “It’s just something I would do to any Red spy I would meet. If I didn’t slug you, people would get suspicious. Trust me.”
“Uh-huh,” he mumbles, glaring at me from under the brim of his fedora. But he keeps a level head and starts making his way to the back of the warehouse.
“One more thing,” I say, as he steps into the Vault and turns around to face me. He’s now got his handkerchief out and is dabbing it gently at the cut on his lip. “How are those coded orders delivered?”
“Some kid,” he replies. “Brings it up in a plain white envelope. Always early in the morning. Before dawn usually.”
“You ever catch the kid’s name?”
“No. But he seems pretty close to Nessie. I see him at the hotel almost every night.”
Malik, I think. The street rat has his hands in almost every dirty pocket in town. I love the kid, but he’s going to be the death of me yet.
“Okay. It’s a place to start.”
“Are you seriously going to try to find out who the chief agent is?”
“Seems like I’m going to have to, aren’t I?” I begin to shut the Vault’s door, then stop when it’s about four inches from closing fully. “Seems to me that whoever he is, he’s the best chance I’ve got at clearing my name and finding that stupid list.”
“It’s also the quickest way for you to get a bullet to the back of your head, too, Captain.”
I shrug the statement off. “The way I see it, that’s pretty much inevitable at this point. Might as well try to accomplish something useful while I wait for the bullet with my name on it.”
With that, I close the door and use the replacement lock to seal the G-Man in. I then turn toward the window in which I first entered the Customs Office and prepare to make good my escape.
17
It’s three in the morning when I slip out of the Customs Office. I’m on my guard, keeping a wary eye out for the watch dogs. They’ve been quiet since the alarm was shut down, and I’m not sure where they might be lurking, but I’m sure they’re around here somewhere.
I don’t have time to deal with them at the moment either. The sun will be coming up in less than three hours, and I still have one more stop to make before I’ve got to head back to the smuggler’s cave. A very important stop.
Crouching low, I shuffle over to the fence, planning on scrambling over the way I came in. But as I pass the gate, I can’t believe my luck. It’s still open, and I realize they must have left it that way so that Alexi could leave freely when he was finished keeping lookout for me. For a brief moment, I wonder if the gate was open all this time, and I kick myself for not checking when I broke in earlier. That would have made things stupidly simple, but then, that’s not exactly the way things work for me most of the time.
Taking a quick look over my shoulder for any signs of the dogs, I run past the gate, spin around once I’m through, and close it up tight. The noise of my retreat must have been louder than I planned, because the dogs are running full throttle at me, saliva oozing from their lips. They leap at the fence when they see me, but they can’t get through, making them angrier than they ever were before.
“Better luck next time,” I say, tipping my cap at them and sprinting away toward the jungle. I hear them howling at me as I run, but I ignore them. I have too much on my mind. Too many conflicting ideas and possibilities to process. The G-Man’s account of everything makes a lot of sense to me, but it’s thrown several notions I’ve had right out the door. So has what I found in the Customs Office.
The main thing is that the players are all mixed up now. I find myself realizing that I don’t know who any of them really are.
I suspected Lagrange, the tyrannical Governor of St. Noel, to be in bed with the Reds. Instead, he vehemently opposes them, and he’s been in contact with the French government for help. The man I believed to be a KGB spy turns out to possibly be an agent with the FBI. The simpleton porter that I’ve never paid much attention to is a really a sleeper agent for the KGB, keeping tabs on anybody who’s anybody in St. Noel. Morris is CIA, but his behavior lately makes me question his loyalties. And Angelique? The biggest surprise of all. French intelligence.
No one seems to be who I think they are, and that makes me nervous. I’m beginning to question everyone now. Maybe that’s a good thing when a fella is trying to clear his name for a murder rap, but it’s a nightmare when you think about all the good friends you’ve made on the island for the last ten years, and the fact that any one of them could be a cold-blooded killer.
I’m thinking all of this as I slip through the jungle like a shadow, making my way as fast as possible to Port Lucine. It’s beyond risky for me to show my face in town right now, but I’m counting on the drunken revelry so common in town and the late hour. Almost everyone will be three sheets to the wind about now, fast asleep in cozy beds or urine-filled gutters, depending on who it is.
It takes me about thirty minutes to make my way to the edge of town. Crouching down behind a palmetto bush, I allow myself a moment to catch my breath while I wait and watch. Everything is dark, except for the two gaslights along the street that illuminate most of the town. The windows of the various buildings and houses from my vantage point are dark as well. Nessie’s is closed up tight and shuttered for the evening. So is the candy shop.
I force myself to be patient just a little while longer and listen. Besides the occasional cry of a macaw or a chattering monkey, everything is quiet.
Satisfied, I move out of the jungle’s cover and hug the shadows, making my way through town. I take things slow, stopping every now and then to listen and wait. Eventually, I round the corner of the candy shop and steal my way toward the Candyman’s house.
My stomach twists into knots as the bungalow comes into view, everything roiling inside me with a slew of conflicting emotions. Fear is dominant. The fear of Jacques catching me in the act of breaking into his place. Fear of the things he’ll do to me the moment he puts his meaty paws around my neck. Fear of seeing the hurt in his eyes, over what he perceives is the greatest betrayal of his life.
That last one leads me to other emotions of sorrow, and the loss of Angelique. The loss of the Candyman’s friendship. Anger rages in my gut as well, over being accused of the murder and having to go on the lam to save my life.
I tamp all those emotions down, forcing them from my thoughts, and focusing only on what I need to do next. Taking another quick look around, I creep through the picket fence surrounding the Lagrange bungalow and onto the front porch. Like the rest of the buildings along the road, all
the lights are off inside. Like most homes on the island, the windows are wide open, allowing the ocean breeze to cool the interior down during the night. The linen drapes, closing off the home from watchful eyes, flap like specters from the air flowing into the home. I can hear the ceiling fan in the living room thumping its rhythmic beat. But there’re no signs of life inside. No movement of any kind.
Taking a deep breath, I turn the front door knob, knowing it won’t be locked. It never is. That is the respect and fear the Lagrange household has garnered over the years. No one would dare break into their abode. The door opens at my urging, and I wince as the hinges creak in protest. I stop where I am and listen. The sound of my heartbeat thrums in my ears, but if anyone heard the door squeak open, no one’s beating feet to see who’s here.
Once again, I don’t really expect anyone to. This time of night, the Candyman’s usually out like a light, his body filled with enough rum and whiskey to put down a small elephant. His dismay over the loss of his wife more than likely has him drinking more than normal, too. I should be safe from waking him, but I’m also not prepared to take my chances.
After waiting what seems like an eternity, I move fully into the house and carefully close the door. The squeaking hinges don’t seem nearly as loud now as they did before, but then, I’m prepared for it this time.
With the door closed, I creep past the foyer, into the sunken living room. Empty booze bottles and filled ash trays are scattered everywhere. Clothing, both men’s and lady’s, is cast aside. Buttons have been torn from shirts. Stockings lay stretched and rent. A brazier hangs precariously from the ceiling fan.
Jacques has been certainly tearing one on since his wife’s death, and from some of the clothes on the floor, it would only take me one try to guess who’s been helping him cope.
Oddly enough, she’s the one person I’ve snuck into the house to visit. I just hope she’s not currently sharing her master’s bed, or this might get awkward really fast.
Like a ghost, I move down the north hallway until I come to the first closed door I find. I ease the knob to the left and feel the door slip open. Everything is dark inside, but there’s a window across the room with a smidgeon of light from the street lamps outside slipping though the blinds. My eye quickly adjusts, and I begin to make out the layout.
Directly ahead of me lies a large canopy bed with mosquito netting surrounding the frame. A small female frame huddles fetal-style with her back to me. There’s a nightstand next to the bed with a glass of water and a dog-eared paperback resting on it. An old mahogany wardrobe and a makeup desk are to my left, but I only pay attention to the woman sleeping so soundly in the bed.
Clarise. The Lagrange’s maid. The Candyman’s plaything. And the woman most likely responsible for framing me for murder.
I pull my .45 and slip across the room to the bed, carefully pulling the mosquito netting aside and fastening it to the tie-offs along the bedposts. The creature lying so serenely across her mattress is a vision of beauty. She’s fully nude, with not so much as a thin sheet to cover her. Her caramel-colored skin glistens with sweat in the humid night. Her hair, no longer in the severe bun I saw a few days ago, is wild and unkempt. Her flower-scented fragrance wafts up into my face, nearly paralyzing me.
There’s something primal about this dame. She belongs here, so near the jungle. And yet, as far as I can tell, she’s in it up to the elbows, as far as my frame-job goes. I can’t be soft on her. This is serious business.
I lower the barrel of my gun at her head and reach around with my free hand and cover her mouth, hard. Her eyes snap open, startled. Frightened.
“Shhhhh,” I hiss. “Don’t make a sound, or you’ll wake up tomorrow with an extra hole in your head.”
Her dreamy brown eyes widen when she sees me. Tears begin to stream down her soft, high cheekbones. But she obeys me. She doesn’t struggle. Doesn’t try to scream.
“Good girl.” With my hand still over her mouth, I allow her enough room to roll over and face me more comfortably. Her small round breasts heave violently, as she cries silently in my hand. “Now I’m going to ask you a couple of questions. You’re going to answer them. Honestly. Understand?”
She nods her head.
“Okay. I know you’re the one that drugged me.”
Her eyes stretch even wider, and she begins to shake her head.
“Don’t try to lie.” I’m getting irritated now, just thinking about that night, and her ethereal beauty is no longer having its effect on me. I’m pretty sure if she says the wrong thing, I could see myself actually putting a bullet in her head for what she’s done to me. “You’re the only one who could have done it. You poured my coffee. You alone handed the cup to me. It had to be you.”
She tries to sniff under my hand. She blinks back her tears, then after a few heartbeats, she nods.
“Okay, so you admit it?”
She nods again.
I breathe, taking it all in. I’m finally getting real answers to all this. I feel myself trembling. The gun shakes in my hand, and I will myself steady.
“Now, I’m going to ask you another question,” I whisper. “I’m going to remove my hand, so you can answer. Quietly.” I let that last word sink in. “You know what will happen if you get too loud, right?”
She blinks again. I feel her salty tears running down the back of my hand now. She nods her understanding yet again.
“Okay, Clarise. For the grand prize, why’d you do it? Why’d you drug me and frame me for Angelique’s murder?”
I ease my hand away from her mouth, but I keep it hovering mere inches away, should I need to gag her again. Carefully, she wipes the tears from her eyes with the back of her hand. I think about offering to pull her bed sheets up, to cover her nakedness. It would be the gentlemanly thing to do. But I think better of it. Naked like she is, she’s vulnerable. Open. She’ll be less inclined to hide anything if she doesn’t have anything to hide behind. It’s cruel, I know. But then, I get the distinct impression that Clarise isn’t the innocent angel I’ve got dancing inside my head.
The dame’s got wiles. And she knows exactly how to use them.
“You gonna answer my question or not?”
I don’t have time for playing games. It’s fast approaching dawn. I won’t stand a chance once people start waking up and going about their daily business.
“I’m sorry.” Her voice is a quiet sob.
“That’s not going to cut it. Apologies don’t unframe me.”
“It was not my idea. I had no idea…”
“No idea, what? Who’s idea was it exactly?”
She sniffs, wiping her nose with the back of her hand. “It was Madam Lagrange. She told me to do it.”
18
“What did you say?”
She’s still sobbing, but I’m impressed with how well she’s controlling the volume of her voice. “Madame Lagrange. She asked me to drug you and Monsieur Grant both.”
I’m wasn’t expecting that response. The room begins to spin around me, as I let what she’s telling me sink in. But I can’t believe it. It’s got to be another lie from a whore that Angelique was kind enough to take into her home. She’s trying to save her own neck. Or worse, she’s protecting the person who’s really behind it.
I clamp my hand down over her mouth again and press the gun against her temple, leaning in and growling, “Don’t lie to me, toots. I’ve run out of all patience, and I’m in no mood for it.” I cock the hammer of the .45 back for emphasis. “You don’t get any more chances.”
I ease my hand up enough to give her lips room to move.
“I swear it’s true. I’m not lying to you.”
“Why? Why would she want to drug me?”
“Because she didn’t want you there to begin with,” Clarise said. “She said you’d never approve of what she was doing, and Morris wouldn’t come back to the house unless you agreed to come, too. She had no choice but to invite you.”
My brain’s gears
are grinding, trying to make sense of all this. Angelique told me she was a spy for the French. It was a surprise, but it’s hardly something I would disapprove of. Unless…
“Clarise, what was Angelique up to? You said she had you drug both me and Morris. Where did Morris go after I zonked out?”
She shook her head. “I do not know where he went. He should have been there when the Mistress was found dead, but he wasn’t.”
“And who killed her? Did you?”
She turns up the waterworks, shaking her head emphatically. “Oh no. I could not. Ever. Madam Lagrange was too good to me. I could never kill her.”
I don’t know why, but I believe her. My gut is screaming at me that the house maid is only a pawn in all this. She knows bits and pieces, but not enough to really give me all the answers.
“And this business of hers? The thing she was afraid I wouldn’t like?”
She’s heaving for breath in between sobs. Trying to find her voice. Compassion gets the better of me, and I reach down to the other end of the bed and pull up the silk sheets she had kicked off her in her sleep. My plan worked perfectly. She was vulnerable, all right. But far too much for my conscience.
“Thank you,” she says, giving me a sad smile. “I do not know all of her plan. Just bits and pieces. Something to do with some classified information and a buyer she had lined up willing to pay a large sum for it.”
I hate to admit it, but this is more like the Angelique that I knew and loved. She was a caring person. Larger than life. Vibrant and the life of any party. But a patriot to the French, who so many on the island have perceived to oppress them for generations? That was a little too hard to believe. It threw me, back when she revealed she worked for the SCECD. Oh, I could definitely see her doing it alright, but only for her own purposes.
When it came right down to it, Angelique Lagrange was a simple woman defined by two major characteristics. First, she was immensely passionate, protective, and loyal to her friends and loved ones. And second, she was a ruthless entrepreneur with an insatiable thirst for wealth and power. The CIA’s list would be a perfect tool for pushing her beyond her current status level as St. Noel’s one and only crime boss, and it would put her on the international playing field.
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