Grand Cayman Slam

by Striker, Randy

  Why?

  My eyes panned quickly up the side of the apartment building. Dia’s lights were on—the only lights in the whole building. I noticed my hands were suddenly shaking. If he had murdered Cynthia Rothchild, the woman who had spurned him, maybe Dia had become number two in the chain.

  Suddenly, Sir Conan slammed the door of the car, punched it into gear, and screeched out of the parking lot.

  Blood was pounding loud in my ears. I took the steps three at a time. There was a rustling in the bushes. I paid no attention. At her door, I banged with full fist. Again and again and—

  “Dusky!”

  She stood trembling in the angle of light, clutching the bathrobe around her neck. Her eyes were puffy, red from crying.

  “My God, Dusky, what’s happened to you?”

  I took her in my arms and swung her around, kicking the door closed behind. In the drama of the moment I learned how much I had come to care for this wild island girl with the lilting Cayman accent. She clung to me tightly, her fingers pulling my face against her wet cheek.

  She was crying and laughing at the same time. “Dusky, your head—what happened to your head?”

  And I suddenly realized what a sight I must have been—my wounds from the exploding searchlight untended, blood crusted in sun-bleached hair.

  So, when I released her, I kissed her soft lips once, then sat her down on the couch beside me.

  “I had a little accident. Nothing major.”

  “Let me get an astringent and some bandages—”

  “That can wait. I saw Sir Conan outside.”

  She shook her head wearily and sighed. Her bathrobe was a burnt orange, and it brought out the subtle shades of soft smoke-brown hair and brown island eyes. “He was here,” she said softly.

  “You let him in?”

  “No!” And then, more controlled: “No, you told me not to. I wouldn’t have anyway.” She rubbed an open palm across her forehead, her distress plain to see. “Dusky,” she said, “Jimmy’s gone mad! Totally and completely mad. His face, his eyes—they were so awful to see. Like a wild man. His pounding was waking up everybody, so I finally had to crack the door with the lock chain on.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He wanted in. He begged me. He . . . ” She spasmed, gasped, then broke down, sobbing. I pulled her head against my chest, stroking her soft hair. When she was better under control, I got up and rummaged through the cupboards until I found a bottle of B&B liqueur. I poured a healthy ration in a tumbler, then took it to her.

  “Drink this.”

  Like a little girl, she wiped nose and eyes with a small fist and took the drink obediently.

  “Feel better?”

  She nodded. “God, how awful I must look.”

  “You look fine.”

  She finished the liqueur in a long swallow. “It’s just that it was so hard turning him away when I had cared so much for him.”

  “I know.”

  “But he was like a wild man, Dusky. Not mean like the night you saw him—he was more . . . pathetic. Like a lost little lad without a friend.”

  “Did he threaten you?”

  She thought, shaking her head. “No. I don’t think so. He said so much, so fast. Rather incoherent things. Wild things. He was very upset about the kidnapping of his son. He kept . . . blaming himself. He said there was blood on his hands. Isn’t that awful?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Yes, it is.”

  She looked at me and hesitated. “You were looking for his son tonight, weren’t you? That’s how you got those cuts.”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you find him? I so hope you did. . . . ”

  “No.”

  She touched my face gently with her fingertips. “Something bad happened to you tonight. I can see it in your eyes.”

  “Business. That’s all. It’s nothing for you to worry about.”

  “Such a considerate liar you are.” She took my head in her palms and pulled my lips to hers. It was a gentle kiss, like a salve, full of affection. “You’re exhausted, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “I can see that in your eyes, too.”

  “My eyes are very talkative tonight.”

  “And you’re not.”

  “Sometimes there’s nothing to say.” I traced her lips with my index finger. “Sometimes silence among two people means more than talk.”

  She took my finger in her small hand and squeezed it. Her face was very, very close to mine, the tropical generations of her forebears beautiful to see in the mahogany skin.

  “I have something to say.”

  “What’s that?”

  She tilted her head and kissed me gently. “I ... love you, Dusky MacMorgan.” She drew her head back and smiled. “There. I said it. I promised myself I would after the last time you left. I had this awful feeling I would never see you again.”

  “You’re just trying to turn my pretty head.” She slapped at me. “Can’t you be serious?” “I thought you didn’t like that word—love.”

  “You’ve changed my mind.”

  “In only two days?”

  “You’re very very persuasive.” She turned suddenly away from me. “And now that I’ve said it, I feel . . . ”

  “Vulnerable?”

  “Yes. How did you know?”

  How did I know? Because my failure to voice my own love for her could only leave her feeling uncertain. I had not played my roll; had not spoken my part: “I love you.” “Yes, and I love you.” That’s the way it’s supposed to go. But long ago, in a distant lifetime, I had lost the one all encompassing love of my life. And now the words wouldn’t come for me; not for the beautiful Diacona Ebanks or for anyone else. Maybe I was feeling sorry for myself. Or punishing myself. Guilt lingers in the wake of any great loss. Yes, I did love this lady in my own way, as much as I could love any woman after only two days. There can be little doubt that there are both negative and positive chemistries between two people. And our interest in each other was both mutual and immediate—from our first meeting on the plane. And my feelings for her had increased tenfold since.

  “I know you feel vulnerable because that’s the way I feel when I’m around you.”

  “Oh . . . ” she said softly, gratefully, “that’s such a nice way to put it.” She buried her face on my chest, kissing my neck, hands sliding up and down my sides. “Hey—your sweater’s wet.”

  “Decided it was a nice night for a swim.”

  “And your pants, too.”

  “Is this a survey?”

  “I’ve just got busy hands, that’s all. And my hands also say that you’re not as exhausted as you pretend to be.”

  “What demands you make on an old man.”

  “I didn’t hear that—the sound of that awful zipper blocked out everything. Where did you get these pants, anyway? A yard sale?”

  “They’re lucky. Don’t knock my lucky knickers.”

  “So that’s what they are?” She dropped down to her knees, off the couch, pulling at the pants. “And you can’t afford underwear, either?”

  “I’m very poor.”

  Her face was flushed brighter than with the tears. “You don’t look so impoverished from this angle.”

  “Where do you get all your energy?”

  “It’s all that flying. The air’s better up there.”

  She touched her tongue to the inside of my knee, tracing the line of my inner thigh. I bent over her, nose buried in her hair, and found the cord which held the robe. It came undone with a tug. I cupped her heavy breasts in my hands while her face and tongue vectored upward. Finally, when I could stand it no more, I stood her up and stripped the robe off her shoulders. Her eyes were hazed, voice thick.

  “Please, Dusky, please . . . yes . . . let’s forget this awful night. . . . ”

  Let’s forget this awful night.

  So I lifted the lady into my arms, my mouth finding hers, and carried her toward the darkened bedroom and that u
ltimate release of all cares, all worries ... and all memories. Something had been added to our lovemaking; something sweet and sad. The frenzy of our first coupling was replaced by something new . . . gentleness, affection . . . and maybe a mutual haven of understanding that, if the world can wound, love can heal.

  And when we were spent, when the memories and the fears had been released in the torrent of climax, she lay with her head cradled on my chest, hand tiny on my chest. Outside, the Cayman dawn was copper-colored, streaked with blue. Through the thin walls of the apartment came the sounds of toilets flushing and blaring wake-up radios; people readying for the new day. But no amount of daylight or noise could have kept either of us from sleep. And just before I drifted off, I heard her Cayman voice like a folk song, saying, “I love you Dusky. . . . ” And I heard another voice, this one deeper, familiar, but still a stranger: “And I love you too, Dia. Very much. . . . ”

  16

  I woke to a nightmare.

  The whole time, I kept thinking: This has to be a dream. This can’t be real.

  I kept wanting to pinch myself; kept wanting to make it all go away and disappear forever and ever.

  But it was no dream.

  There was the sound of a lightbulb popping. And then another. I had drifted to the surface of consciousness earlier, vaguely aware that Dia had slid from bed, perfect back and buttocks soon covered by robe, brown hair thrown back into place. And she had turned, smiling.

  “Go back to sleep, darling. I’m going to make some tea. And a nice thick steak I bought for your noon feeding. I’ll wake you when it’s ready.”

  So I had let myself descend back into that gauzy netherworld of midday sleep, screened from the busy Cayman day by thick curtains and the generator whisper of air-conditioning.

  And that’s when I heard the pop. And then another. In my dreams, the beautiful Diacona Ebanks’ hand dropped an egg. Or a lightbulb. And I was laughing at her. She was very lovely in the dreamy celestial light . . . and quite naked.

  That’s when the stifled scream told me it wasn’t a dream.

  I sat bolt upright in bed. The air conditioner filled the sudden quiet, along with the tick-tick-ticking of the alarm clock by the bed.

  “Dia? Dia!”

  She came walking mechanically through the bedroom door. There was a bewildered look on her perfect face. She wore the same burnt-orange robe. She had piled her hair atop her head after showering. Her right hand was clapped to her left breast as if saying the pledge of allegiance. She held her left arm out, reaching for me.

  “Dia—what is it!”

  She took two more zombielike steps, stumbled, then fell heavily on the floor. That’s when I noticed the little rivulet of crimson streaming from her. She was straining desperately to hold it in, as if it were a leak that had to be plugged.

  I was on my feet and beside her. Her eyes were distant, glazed.

  “Dia, who did it? Who?”

  Her left hand reached out and touched my face gently. Some grave understanding seemed to come into her eyes; then a stranger, unexpected expression—amusement.

  “Dusky . . . ” she whispered, the voice of a little girl.

  And then she disappeared. . . .

  In that curious vacancy of time and understanding which accompanies severe shock, the ambulance arrived and then the police. And the huge Irishman was not far behind.

  I couldn’t remember telephoning for help, but I did. And I couldn’t remember ripping the door half off its hinges, running to the parking lot in search of the murderer, but it had to be me. I sat in a daze after they carted her away, half listening to the police captain tell me how it had probably happened.

  “She was shot at very close range, sir. By a small-caliber weapon. Probably a .22. Twice. Through the heart. We figure she opened the door with the chain still on. Whoever did it didn’t hesitate. You say you didn’t hear anything until the gunshots?”

  “No. I was asleep.”

  The police lieutenant was a somber black man in the crisp uniform the British assign to their tropical officers. He scribbled dutifully in his notebook. He didn’t like asking the questions any more than I liked answering them.

  “Did she say anything, sir, before she . . . passed away?”

  “No. Just my name. Nothing else.”

  “Any idea who might have done it, sir?”

  I started to tell him the truth, then stopped. Sure, I had an idea. Maybe more than just an idea. We had already told the cops to tail Sir Conan. And if they couldn’t put two and two together, why make it easy for them?

  That would just give me more time. More time to track him down on my own. In my mind’s eye, I could see very clearly how I would take him; how I would force a confession and then tear his life away with my hands. I could see the handsome, slightly cruel English face of Sir Conan James; could see the way his dark eyes would look when I made him beg. . . .

  “Is something wrong, sir? Shall I call a physician?”

  The Cayman police lieutenant was looking at me strangely, reading the expression on my face.

  “What? No. I’m fine. You were asking . . . ”

  “I was asking if you had any idea who might have shot Miss Ebanks.”

  “No. No idea. I just arrived on the island a few days ago.”

  “Did you come here on business?”

  “He’s workin’ fer us, Lieutenant Campbell!” The big Irishman rambled across the expanse of apartment, hands in cutoff shorts, burly chest and shoulders straining against the white worsted shirt he wore. His red hair was mussed, as if he had come straight from bed.

  “Commander O’Davis—this gentleman is working for you?”

  “Aye. And if ye’ve asked all yer questions, Lieutenant, I’ll be takin’ him along now.”

  “Certainly, Commander.”

  The Irishman took me by the arm and led me outside. The police investigators were just finishing up, done with their measuring and powdering and outlining. Once more, a woman’s life had ended with her form etched in chalk. Cynthia Rothchild. And now Diacona Ebanks. The first had been grim enough. The second I could not bear to see.

  “You okay, Yank?” the Irishman said softly as he walked me down the stairs.

  “Me? Sure. Everything’s jake.” My voice sounded odd, like the voice of some stranger on the edge of hysterics.

  “Easy, lad, easy.”

  I squeezed into the Fiat and slammed the door. Outside the Sea Mist Apartments was a crowd of people, mostly islanders, many of them sobbing openly.

  “The murder of an Ebanks is not taken calmly on Grand Cayman,” O’Davis said as we backed onto the main road. “That poor lass of yours was probably related one way or another ta half the island population. They’ll not let the judge go easy on ’im if they find out who done it—if they let ’im get to the judge, that is.”

  “If they find out who did it. You know damn well who killed her—the same maniac who killed Cynthia.”

  “Did ya tell the police that?”

  I caught the Irishman’s eyes. It was like looking into a mirror. His pale eyes were cold, frozen, bitter.

  “Guess it slipped my mind.”

  “Good,” he said. “That’s me boy. Spoke with that fool Henderson at Government House this morning. That was before I got word about yer girl. He said the police sent a unit to Sir Conan’s estate this mornin’. No one was there. Just the servants. Patrol cars are keepin’ an eye open fer his car.”

  “Anymore word from the kidnappers?”

  The Irishman shook his head. “They’ve got full watches monitoring the VHF. But so far—nothin’. I’m supposed ta ring in every half hour, jest in case.”

  “They get anything out of the two Jamaicans?”

  “At first the brutes wouldn’t even admit ta bein’ part of a heroin ring. Finally gave in when the evidence was presented—that an’ the fact they threatened them with murder charges fer the two American drug runners. Had a real slick organization, they did. On the Jamaica e
nd, their bossman would make contact with international high rollers interested in makin’ a quick killin’ on a drug deal. They’d meet the high rollers here in Grand Cayman with the promise they’d made arrangements ta buy X amount of heroin. The high rollers were to finance the buy, then take a major percentage of the sale but it never worked that way, o’ course. Jamaicans were workin’ both ends. Once they delivered the money, the high rollers would just disappear—or be scared inta never sayin’ a word. After all, no police force in the world would listen to their tale o’ woe about bein’ flimflammed in a drug deal. And the Jamaicans had no problem launderin’ the money through Grand Cayman with all the international bankin’ available.” O’Davis snorted. “Pretty damn smart, really. Said they had a mandate from God. Needed the money so the Rastafarians could take their prophesied place as rulers of the world.” The Irishman gave me a quick look. “Seem like there’s more an’ more loony-birds runnin’ around lately?”

  “Maybe. Or maybe they just get better press. A maniac has no more willing PR agent than your average reporter. One thing I do know—this island is going to have one fewer lunatic before I leave.”

  “Aye. I kin see that, brother MacMorgan. I kin see. But we still have the lost lad ta think about, don’t forget.”

  “I haven’t forgotten. I keep thinking kidnapping would fit right in with that Rastafarian mandate from God.”

  “The police are goin’ over the trawler and the Canadian’s home with a fine-tooth comb. If there’s any sign of the boy, they’ll find it. The Cayman regulars are all fine, studious lads. Not much crime here, so they do na get much chance ta use it. But that’ll jest make ’em that much more determined ta succeed.”

  The gates at the Sir Conan James estate were open, so we just drove on in. A vintage battleship-gray Bentley was sitting inside the carport, garage door open. O’Davis identified it as Lady James’ car. But there was no sign of Sir Conan James’ Mercedes.

  We decided to go in anyway. On the way, I told Westy about my earlier encounter with the drunken succubus, Lady James. He clicked his tongue knowingly and said nothing.

  “So I think it might be better if I talked to her by myself,” I added. “There are still some things about the boy’s room that bother me. The telescope was one thing—and that still doesn’t make sense. His alarm clock was another.”