by Vince Milam
“Her holdings?” He paused and digested the card’s information. “Joey told me this place would remain under the foundation’s control long after he passed.” He delivered an expansive wave toward the grounds and mansion accompanied by, “His sanctuary, he called it. His blue diamond. The crown jewel of his existence.”
“Joey?”
“Mr. Bettencourt.” The kid’s hands returned to his waist, his stance resolute. It was damn near comical. What wasn’t funny was the young man’s eyes. His countenance. A mean streak lay buried there, and not deep. Along with a touch of fanaticism.
“What’s this foundation?”
“He established it last year. Some kind of trust fund. In Nassau. To ensure his dream carried on.”
Joey. Mr. Joseph Wilkins Bettencourt, rich dude. Sunglasses lowered, I locked eyes with the young man. Trinidadian, his accent lacked a Bahamian smooth slang or the clipped style of Barbados. A tighter enunciation. As for the foundation’s status, it would remain between the solicitors in Nassau and Mrs. Bettencourt’s bevy of attorneys. Good times for the bill by the hour lawyering business.
“If you feel this alleged foundation has a legal claim, I’d suggest you address it with Mrs. Bettencourt’s law firm. Such matters are outside my purview. Meanwhile, let’s follow appropriate protocol. I will survey the house and its condition. Ask questions. Are you capable of answering my enquiries, or should I engage someone better suited for such an activity?”
The kid’s mind raced, weighing options. White flannel flapped, the Caribbean waters choppy. He chose cooperation, albeit a bit on the surly side, in case I might be an ally down the road. A conniving survivor and one never trusted.
“I can show you around. And answer questions.”
“And your name?”
“Tig.”
“Does Tig have a last name?”
He started a lip curl, then controlled himself. “Roberts.”
“The Dread Pirate Roberts. Great.” I extended an arm toward the mansion, indicating he should lead the way. He didn’t catch The Princess Bride reference but turned and led the way across the lawn.
Pretty girls, pretty boys. Young, littered about, languid, waiting and hopeful and hostage. Jeez. Ol’ Joey owned a private Caribbean playpen. You’d think Bettencourt—at sixty-three—well past orchestrating this act.
As we approached the pool where a half-dozen young people sunbathed, I asked, “First question, Tig. Why did you address my client in such a manner?”
“Your client?”
“Mrs. Bettencourt.”
“Because she was horrible.” He stopped and turned and pleaded his case. “Joey told me all about her. She is mean. Mean and bitter. She came here once.” He shook his head, recalling the incident.
“When was this?”
“Last year. She just arrived. It was a surprise visit.”
“Okay.”
“She’d never been here. Joey never invited her.”
“His wife required an invitation?”
He failed catching the incongruity. “She went crazy. Started screaming at everybody. Yelling at poor Joey. It was horrible.”
“Yeah. I can well imagine.” I brushed past Tig and chatted with several young people on my way toward the opened French back doors. The boys were of Caribbean origin. The girls, Eastern European. Albanian, Romanian, a real grab-bag of accents and inflections. Ages ranged from thirteen to eighteen, tilted toward the younger side. Very nice, Joey—you pedophile son of a bitch. I wished they had fed his body to the sharks.
The mansion displayed rich décor and professional interior decorating. Wealth oozed from every room. The garage held several Mini-Coopers so, I supposed, the kids could scoot about the island. A convertible Rolls Royce for when Joey wished a tour of the local environs.
“Did Mr. Bettencourt have a private study? A place strictly his own?”
“Yes. This way.”
We climbed the expansive teakwood circular stairway. A pop song played from a closed-door room. Someone rattled pots and pans in the kitchen. An occasional half-dressed kid would wander past, cast an inquisitive look my way, and continue on. Looking lost, waiting for instructions.
“Let’s take a detour for the bedroom,” I said. “Quick look.”
“I don’t think you need to go there.”
I leaned into the kid’s face. “The bedroom. A quick look.”
Jaw muscles clenched, Tig strode down a hallway, opened a door, and stood aside, arms crossed. Nothing unusual inside. A large bedroom with a king-size bed. Fresh sheets, the room recently cleaned. An adjoining expansive bathroom, off-white tile, and stacks of expensive towels. The medicine cabinet held few surprises.
“You don’t need to look in there!” Tig said. Arms still crossed, he’d followed me into the tile cavern.
“Well, Tig. Where I do and don’t look isn’t your business.” I shot him a hard stare. “It is my business.”
The usual toiletries, over-the-counter pain pills, sundries. Two prescription bottles. A statin, for cholesterol control. And an industrial-sized bottle of Viagra. Atta boy, Joey. I held up the Viagra bottle, shook it Tig’s direction, and raised one eyebrow. He snorted, turned on his heel, and walked away.
The private study held the usual unread leather-bound books, an antique world globe mounted on brass spindles, and a large desk. One wall displayed an oversized map of the Caribbean and Central America. Several stickpins were pushed into Costa Rica. Maybe the location of Joey’s next planned retreat.
“How did he die, Tig? What were the circumstances?”
“It was terrible. Terrible. I couldn’t wake him.”
“You came to his room that morning?”
“Well, not exactly.”
“Okay. You slept with him. Who else?”
There was no point avoiding the reality with this little slice of bacchanal heaven.
“She’s gone.”
Yeah. Gone. Earmarks and vibes painted a picture of tawdry life and unexpected death. Lots of folks may have wanted him dead, including the less-than-bereaved widow. A part of me couldn’t blame her. But why not divorce the guy? An iron-clad prenup, social ostracizing, a strange sense of loyalty? I’d never know. And maybe he did die of natural causes. Or my personal tour guide Tig, with his eyes on a promised prize, had a hand in whacking his bosom buddy and lover Joey. I sighed—a weird, sad lifestyle. Money spent in pursuit of warped personal happiness, lapping at a perceived fountain of youth.
“So they took the body to Nassau. The coroner. Right?” I asked.
“I suppose so.”
“Where he was cremated.”
“So I understand.”
“Was he feeling ill, Tig? Any physical complaints?”
“No. I mean, the usual aches and complaints. He was short of breath sometimes. A wonderful, wonderful man.”
A peach of a man, Tig. A stellar human being.
“Did Mr. Bettencourt deal with any personal conflicts? Arguments either in-person or over the phone?”
“No. Well, with the hellbitch occasionally. But nothing else.”
Mrs. Bettencourt, the hellbitch. So, here’s the deal, Tig old buddy. If it came to a throw-down between you and her, my money stayed with the hellbitch. I perused the large desktop and opened drawers. Nothing of interest.
“How about business calls?” I asked. “Any regular contacts or conversations in that world?”
Tig spun the globe. The axis squeaked as it turned. “Jordan. He talked with someone named Jordan. Business stuff.”
“Does Jordan have a last name?”
“I don’t know it. But Joey lived here to, well, live. Relax and enjoy life.”
“Yeah. Got it. What’s the deal with Costa Rica?” I pointed toward the wall map. Tig shrugged, uninterested. “Any friends here on Abaco? Regular visitors?”
“We were his friends. All of us.”
The globe stopped spinning. Tig set hands on hips again, challenging. The pop music down the hal
l changed songs. The view from the study window returned Caribbean crystal-blue water, manicured landscaping, a soft steady breeze waving palm fronds. Paradise.
“How did you get here, Tig?”
“I was hired.”
“How long ago?”
“It has been two years. I did a Skype interview with Joey. He hired me right away.”
“From where?”
“Nassau.”
Why he’d lie didn’t plop on my interest radar. He didn’t wish revealing Trinidad as his origin, and I didn’t care. I posed several more questions and sought insight or clues or a sense of foul play. Each question responded to with a “don’t know” answer. Maybe I was missing something. Maybe not.
“Okay. I’ve seen enough.”
“What now?”
“I’ll head for the Nassau morgue. Talk with the coroner.”
“I’m going to contact Joey’s Nassau solicitor. That bitch isn’t touching this place.” His hands moved to his sides, an air of pissant righteousness radiating.
“Do what you gotta do, Tig.”
At the bottom of the stairs, a teenage girl no more than fifteen and wearing a string bikini padded toward us. The breeze blew long white diaphanous curtains into the entrance hall. Someone dived into the outside pool, the splash audible over the call of gulls.
“Should I do something?” she asked Tig, a finger pointed my way. Her Eastern European accent was Ukrainian, perhaps Bulgarian. Both hotbeds of exporting sexual slaves.
“No. Not a thing,” I said, preempting Tig’s response. But what was there to say? Leave this place, young lady. Seek a path elsewhere. A sad moment, made more so with my lack of solid input or heartfelt advice. This girl had a father somewhere. Who would have a helluva lot more to say than no, not a thing. Tig strode toward the open front doors, and I handed the girl a business card. It was all I could think to do.
“Call me if you need anything.”
A bright smile returned, teeth flashing. A kid’s smile.
What a hollow and sad freakin’ place. As I pulled away from the docks the strong breeze stirred the gin-clear water. Tig stood at the pier’s edge and watched. Lips pursed and a lone finger tapped his mouth as he thought, cogitated, connived. I headed for Nassau and the morgue. Ten minutes later I killed the vessel’s twin engines and drifted on the blue sea, Abaco bobbing in the distance. Stripped down to my birthday suit and dived in. I needed a bath.
Chapter 4
So there I knelt in the Princess Margaret hospital, waiting for my would-be killer. A fresh breeze stirred the office’s curtains, my senses cranked. The latex gloves—donned when breaking into the morgue—remained. No fingerprints. A full-senses focus toward sounds and movement while biding deadly time on a Nassau night. It was a short wait.
The dry rustle of clothing brushing against oleander bushes signaled his approach. He’d shown patience, waiting for his murderous sidekick to show and provide a verbal report. Hate disappointing you, buddy, but your friend’s speaking engagements were canceled. Light Nassau traffic sounded, a car horn’s single short bleat far distant. Voices of a strolling couple outside the hospital grounds carried across fresh salty Caribbean night air.
The rustling stopped. He’d peek through the open window, his pistol’s red dot laser moving around the room, prepared for a snap shot. A full minute ticked past before shoes scraped against the exterior wall, combined with a muted grunt. He hefted himself up and through the opening, into the morgue. My turn.
I slipped through the window and exited the oleanders onto the expansive lawn. Crept on grass alongside the landscape plants and stopped short of the morgue window. Then eased back through the foliage and pressed against the hospital wall. And again waited, ten feet from the morgue’s window. The killer would stick his head out after determining I wasn’t dead or wounded or there.
He turned on the morgue lights. The open window illuminated the immediate outside area, and I parked at its edge. Scooting back another ten feet afforded hidden blackness again. It made for a twenty foot nighttime headshot. Not a challenge.
Drawers and refrigerator doors opened and shut. The hitter mucked about, likely searching for the tissue sample—marked “Bettencourt”—now tucked in my jeans’ front pocket. Then soft shuffling and a deep exhale. A final look around and, perhaps, resignation. The morgue lights flicked off. A motor scooter puttered down a nearby street. A lone ship’s distant horn sounded. And my killer staged his final exit from this good earth.
I reconsidered a reprieve. Take a chance he wouldn’t head toward the docks—my next destination. A pardon from the governor, buddy. Your lucky day. This little sortie already claimed one man. One soul.
The angst and mental musings damn near got me killed. The hitter heaved himself onto the window sill and perched. Prior to dropping on the ground, and for a variety of reasons including bad luck, he looked my way and recognized a dark figure. I remained frozen as a statue, the pistol at my side. The weapon’s heft and grip of cool metal provided deadly comfort.
“Well, mon,” he said, voice low and matter-of-fact. “We have a situation.”
Seconds ticked by. Another scooter made its way down the street. He remained still, feet dangling. My prolonged silence became problematic, with the potential of initiating an unwanted move on his part.
“Yeah. Yeah we do.”
His chin lifted, a slight head shift. Strong odds he attempted visual confirmation I was armed. With the pistol tight against my leg, deep darkness wouldn’t provide him sufficient visual clues.
“We could keep this simple,” he said.
“Simple is good.”
“Toss me the tissue sample. Then you can walk away.”
So I could get shot in the back. No thanks. But I held no burning desire to whack this guy. So I tossed him a life preserver.
“Here’s a better idea. Release your weapon. Let it drop on the ground. Then you climb back inside.”
I could scoop up his pistol, leave him unarmed. He wouldn’t pursue. And the Bahamas chapter of this job would wrap up. But his growled chuckle sounded as a starter’s pistol at a foot race. This was going down.
With a collected motion he dropped from his perch. The red dot laser flicked on and the thin beam of light whipped through the foliage as he brought his gun hand toward me.
I didn’t hesitate. The Glock spit its restrained pop and the killer fell. He crumpled among the landscape bushes, splayed and still. I crouched, silent, for several minutes and ensured no observers, no foot traffic, no awareness among the citizens of Nassau. Retrieved my fired round’s ejected casing. Then strolled away, across the lawn, and blended into the Nassau night.
The leased 40-foot ocean cruiser lay quiet under starlight. No other people moved about the docks at the late hour. I slipped the lines, slipped from the dock, and headed into the night, running lights off. The large twin engines could push the vessel at forty knots if needed, a more sedate thirty knot cruising speed the usual pace. Clear of the harbor, I firewalled the throttles, the engines responded, and the 200 miles separating me from south Florida began disappearing. I put the vessel on autopilot and went below. The tissue sample swapped places in the freezer with a bottle of Grey Goose. I knew a Miami toxicologist who owed me a favor and would analyze the sample.
Back on the bridge, vodka-rocks in hand, I checked the radar. Scattered traffic—the usual ships, cruisers, fishing boats. One vessel tracked my course, running parallel, a mile north. The Nassau to Miami run was well traveled, but this boat, like mine, showed no running lights. A dark and nebulous image when sighted through binoculars.
I kept the throttles pressed forward. A Bahamian police vessel would have approached full bore, cop boat lights flashing as the international waters boundary approached, twelve nautical miles away from land. But the dark vessel continued its track and matched my speed and heading.
A well-honed sense, much more than a gut feel, said I was a target. Situational awareness—too much didn’t
jibe. The other boat assessed me, the circumstances, and the odds. He’d consider firepower, mine and his, and weigh options. The possibility of pirates loomed—the real deal. The Caribbean was a hot-spot for piracy. Among the watery Caribbean turf, the Windward Islands—Dominica to Trinidad—held the largest number of high seas desperados. But they could appear anywhere.
The pistol wasn’t my lone weapon. A quick trip below produced the semi-automatic rifle. But the weapon’s scope provided no further defining features of the tracking vessel, the distance too great.
A mile into international waters, I cut the throttle back to a creep. Two or three knots, as the Caribbean rollers lifted and slow-rocked the vessel. If pirates, they’d make their move now. International waters, their quarry wallowing among the sea swells.
But the radar indicated the dark vessel slowed as well. Its onboard contingent planned and weighed the next move. Lurked. We rolled through swells together for five minutes. My slow-down sent a dual message—I’m aware of you, and I’m not running. Bring it on. A weird game of high stakes saltwater chicken.
The dark vessel turned and goosed its engines. The radar displayed the electronic reflection pull away, headed back toward Nassau. Enemy, pirate, disinterested party—I might never know. But the scoped rifle stayed with me.
I pressed the throttles and cruised at thirty knots. The dark vessel disappeared over the radar’s horizon. I held a powerful dislike of such unknowns. Unknowns affecting the health and wellbeing of Case Lee, Esq. Unknowns such as who arranged the two dead hitters. That little turd Tig topped the list as the person who’d called ahead. But he wouldn’t setup my morgue greeting committee. I couldn’t see it. No, he contacted a boss, an arranger. So no clue who drove this little conspiracy regarding Bettencourt’s demise, and it sat well outside the scope of this engagement. My job—assess and paint the landscape picture. If others wished further action from my findings, fine. It wouldn’t be me.