In Harm's Way (A Martin Billings Story Book 3)

by Ed Teja

  I took a last look at one of my favorite skies. “Those rubber duckies are a bitch to row, aren’t they?”

  “Rubber duckies?”

  “The dinghy. That’s what we call them. At least it’s a nice night for it.”

  Donna balanced precariously in the boat, looking up. “Is it?”

  “It is. Are you coming up for a smirk and a drink?”

  She glared up at me. “That was a hell of a row, so yeah.” She paused, staring up. “I didn’t remember your goddamn boat being this tall. The deck didn’t seem this high up before.”

  “Our dinghy is taller.”

  She put a hand against the hull. “How the fuck do I get up there?”

  “Hold on,” I said. I grabbed a rope ladder, which sat there for just such occasions, by which I mean getting up and down into small boats, not necessarily bringing murder suspects on board. “Bring up the painter and will tie it off on the railing.”

  She scowled. “The painter?”

  “The rope you have in your hand. The one you use to tie the dinghy to shit.”

  “Right.” With a grunt, she grabbed the ladder and started up. “I didn’t mind climbing to get rescued, but I figured for day-to-day living you’d have an elevator, or something equally civilized,” she said.

  “Ugly Bill tells me we need to get exercise,” I said. “Blame him.”

  “Okay.”

  “Of course, you could have come to the other side,” I told her as she reached the top and threw her lovely bare leg over the railing. I grabbed her arm and pulled her on board. When she was on her feet, I jerked my thumb at the port side. “We have our dinghy over there, and there is an accommodation ladder you can just walk up.”

  “You might have mentioned that.”

  “True, and while we are airing our complaints about withholding information, I think you might have mentioned the dead man in the sailboat boat. It became an inconvenient issue with the local authorities. They frown on such things.”

  “Yeah, well — ”

  “We all have secrets, it seems. Mine wasn’t particularly consequential.”

  I opened another chair, putting it on the opposite side of the bar from mine, and then walked back to my comfy recliner. As she slipped off a backpack and settled into the other seat she took note of the setup. “I take it you were expecting me? Or someone else?”

  “I wasn’t expecting a single soul, to be honest. This is me being adaptable.”

  “Adaptable?”

  “I like my comforts. But to address the more pressing issue: I think that protocol dictates that at this point I’m supposed to call the cops, or something like that. It’s expected of a good citizen.”

  “That’s probably right, but I do have a gun,” she said, nodding at the backpack.

  I laughed. “No, you don’t,” I said. “Ugly Bill and I explained to the inspector that it would be stupid to keep the murder weapon on you in case you got caught. You didn’t strike us as stupid.”

  She laughed. “But I don’t plan to get caught.”

  “So much for another brilliant logical deduction.” I sighed and poured her a rum. “The gun… is it yours? Did you bring one from the States?”

  She scowled. “How the hell would I do that? No, Warren had this one on board.”

  “You killed him with his own gun? That’s mean.”

  “The gun I have is the murder weapon, but I didn’t shoot him. When I found him dead, I picked up the gun. I thought I might need it.”

  “Ah. Which raises the question: who did kill him?”

  She sat back and sipped the rum, then caught herself and held it up. “You didn’t spike this with anything, did you?”

  “That rum doesn’t need any help in knocking people out. Besides, if there is anything in it, I already drank a lot myself. But we were talking about a murder you didn’t commit.”

  “Right. It was my boyfriend who killed him. Or his pal.”

  “Boyfriend without emphasis on the friend part, I assume.”

  She shook her head. She wasn’t wearing the bandanna now, and even by moonlight I could see that her hair was done in a very nice short afro. That struck me as an efficient do for the busy modern woman on the run from the law.

  “I’m pretty sure he came to the island to kill me.”

  “But decided to do Warren Davis instead?”

  “I guess Warren tried to convince him not to kill me. I told Warren he shouldn’t get involved.”

  “Men! They just don’t listen, right?”

  “You don’t believe me.” She actually sounded surprised.

  “Not really. Your record is pretty clear on your truthfulness. Besides, why would your boyfriend come here to kill you? And why kill Warren? Jealousy?”

  “Nate is not the jealous type.” She caught herself. “Well, he probably is, but not in a regular way.”

  “The killing another boyfriend way?”

  She scowled. “I wasn’t fucking Warren. In fact, Nate knows he is… was gay.”

  “What is he jealous about then?”

  “The problem isn’t jealousy.” She paused. “See, I recently found out that he is a contract killer for the mob.”

  “Helluva thing to keep from a girl,” I said.

  “It’s true. A week ago, when he thought I was out of the apartment, I overheard him on the phone. He had his cell on speakerphone, so I heard everything.”

  “About?”

  “About contract killing. About stuff the feds seemed pretty excited to know more about. Let’s leave it at that.”

  “And somehow he found out you heard him.”

  “Yeah. I screwed up. I called the feds and told them I had information and asked them for protection.”

  “They said no?”

  “They said yes. I think he must have had my phone tapped or whatever guys like that do. The fed I talked to arranged for me to meet with some guy. They wanted to start with an interview and then, if they decided I was on the level, that I really had something, they’d give me a deal.”

  “It didn’t go well, I take it.”

  “When I got to the meeting, the guy who showed up was a friend of Nate’s. A guy named Nick.”

  “Nate and Nick. Sounds like a comedy duo.”

  “I guess that Nick didn’t know I’d seen him around. He gave me a name, the name on the badge he showed me. At that point, I figured I was fucked no matter what I did, so I pretended I didn’t know he was a ringer. I played dumb.”

  “That must have been tricky.”

  “I told him Nate that the feds called me up, that they said I’d be arrested if I didn’t meet with them for a chat.”

  “And that you went?”

  “I was stuck with that part. But I said they called me and that I told them I didn’t know shit, had nothing to tell anybody about anything, and certainly didn’t need protection, witness or regular.”

  “And he bought that?”

  “Either that or he just pretended to. But I knew he’d go to Nate, and Nate would know that I called the feds, not the other way around. So, I ran.”

  “Why here, to a small island?”

  “That’s where Warren fits into all this.”

  “I was wondering about old Warren.”

  She gave me an odd look; at least it seemed odd in the shadowy light. “He was an old friend. I worked for him a lifetime ago, and I knew he had retired to some fucking tropical island on his boat. I thought it was Hawaii, honestly. Tropical sounded like it might be far enough away. I called him and he was happy to help. He never liked Nate. He told me to fly down to Grenada. He said he’d meet me there with his boat and bring me here. If we never checked in, then no one could find me.”

  “That didn’t work out well, I take it.”

  “I don’t know much about how you track a person, but I thought we were being so fucking careful. I stayed on Warren’s boat, didn’t use hotels, or use my credit card
s… and then the other day I was ashore getting some supplies when I saw a boat come in. I was half paying attention but saw Nate and Nick get off the damn thing. I stood there in shock. I couldn’t believe I was seeing those two right here. I watched step off onto the dock and head straight for Warren’s boat as if they knew exactly where it was.”

  “He probably rents the slip on a monthly basis. If they knew his name, all they had to do was radio the marina and ask which slip he had. They’d have no reason not to tell people.”

  My observation surprised her. “Oh, aren’t you the clever one? Well, I stayed put and watched. A little later, they came off the boat, walking down the dock and into the Port Captain’s office. When they went inside, I got my ass back to the boat where I found Warren seriously dead. I panicked. I knew where he kept the keys, so I started the frigging boat engine, wanting to get the fuck out of Dodge. I figured I could drive it somewhere, and anywhere would be safer than here.”

  “That part makes sense.”

  “I went full throttle, wanting to be out of sight before they came out of the office. I turned south and intended to round the point. Everything went fine until right after I passed the commercial harbor, then, wham! I hit those fucking rocks. Why would they leave those rocks so close to where boats are going?”

  “I’m sure the existence of French Reef is a matter of negligence,” I said and saw her puzzled look. “That’s the name of those rocks.”

  “They name the goddamn rocks? What the fuck is that about? Anyway, you know the rest.”

  I nodded. “I know that when we showed up you lied to us, and when we took you ashore you ran like hell?”

  “Right. What was I supposed to do? If I mentioned the body, you’d have called the cops. Then I’d be in jail now.”

  “True. But that didn’t work either.”

  “I’m stuck on this island with my murderous boyfriend and his thick-necked lackey.” She picked up the bottle. “To add insult to injury, your fucking rum bottle is empty.”

  “Another cruelty of life,” I said, getting out of my chair. “Fortunately, sailors prepare for emergencies. I’ll get another.”

  She hopped out of her chair. “Leave your phone,” she said. “I don’t want you calling the cops now any more than I did before.”

  “My cell phone is in my stateroom — in its natural ‘off’ state.”

  She came close. “I’ll check, if you don’t mind.” Without waiting for an answer, she stuffed her hands into the empty pockets of my robe. The movement yanked it open, revealing that I hadn’t dressed after my shower. Probably because it was dark, the woman, put her hands on me and verified that I didn’t have a cell phone or a gun, or anything but me under it. This was accomplished by running those soft, tiny hands over various important parts of my bare skin before stepping back.

  “Satisfied?” I asked.

  “Not nearly,” she said. “Go get the rum.”

  I went into the galley and pulled a fine bottle of rum out of the box. One nice thing about being a rum snob is not having to memorize all those vintages. Rum from a distiller is good or bad, and that’s all you need to know.

  Back on deck it took a moment for my night vision to return, but I was aware of her standing in the shadows. As I adjusted, I could just make her out, nearly invisible against the bulkhead and staring out to sea. “Fresh supplies,” I said, holding up the bottle.

  I saw her nod. “Go ahead. You sit down and pour us drinks. I’ll join you in a moment,” she said. There was something different in her voice now, a timber that reinforced the sense of being in the presence of a desirable woman.

  Not wanting to disrupt a possibly thoughtful moment, and because we were being civilized (and I’m told that’s a good thing) I did what she suggested, sitting and pouring the drinks. At least those things couldn’t hurt anyone, I thought.

  As I tasted my rum, letting the smooth taste caress my tongue, I sensed Donna slipping behind my chair, her movements smooth and whisper quiet. A faint hint of some floral perfume hinting at her presence and the warmth radiated by her body caressing my neck sent a tingle of excitement rippling through me.

  Whether or not Donna Devro had killed Warren Davis, clearly I found her dangerous and exciting, not to mention intriguing and mysterious and probably lots of other things as well.

  She stood behind me, bending forward, letting one hand slip inside my robe where it burned my skin as she trailed her hand down my chest and over my abdomen, making me gasp. As she moved her body down to grab her glass from the table she let her bare breast brush over my cheek, making it burn with the hot, exciting caress of her flesh. Then she put her lips to my ear and whispered.

  “You want me,” she said, her words soft, wet, and warm on my ear, and before I could think to deny her claim, her fingers grabbed a firm indicator that she was right.

  A welter of conflicting emotions swelled up inside me, that mixed lust and the thrill of erotic adventure (having a lovely and mysterious woman wanting to arouse me under the tropical night sky) along with a wariness, the knowledge that whatever she was up to, she was after something.

  Ultimately, when she moved around the chair, climbing onto my lap, the negatives weren’t strong enough for me to give a damn. She kissed me and sank down on me, and I let myself savor the considerable pleasure of the moment and the moments that followed.

  When we untangled, Donna got into her own chair and picked up her glass. “See how nice it is to be friends?”

  My sense of sated lust didn’t totally displace my reasoning power. “Are we friends, Donna? Or have you just discovered getting off the island is harder when you don’t have a friend with a boat?”

  She tipped her head, gave me an embarrassed smile. “I can see how you would think that. But I do have a friend with a boat, a big boat. You could take me somewhere.”

  “Where would I take you, Donna? Venezuela? Colombia?”

  She shrugged. “Where do you think I should go?”

  “We can’t go anywhere. Not without serious complications. You are officially a wanted woman, but very much in the wrong manner — in connection with a murder. Serious shit.”

  “Ah, but I’m a sweet damsel in distress.”

  “Bullshit. You are a player in some fashion.”

  “You could still take me away from all this if you wanted to.”

  “It isn’t that easy. We’d need to check out. Ugly Bill would have to know.”

  “No. You could skip all that shit.” She waved her hand at the ocean. “The door is unlocked, as far as I can see. We don’t need to do anything but start the engines and take off.”

  I gave her my most charming smile. “Escaping by commercial freighter is a bad idea.”

  “Seems fine to me. A lot more comfortable than a sailboat.”

  “That part is true, but when we got underway, it would be pretty obvious. Bill would be upset. Walter, the Port Captain would be upset, and he knows I have business here. And both of them know that the police inspector expects me to drop by in the morning.”

  “And do what?”

  “Chat, he says. We will see. At any rate, if we left, they would call the coast guard. Even if by some miracle they didn’t notice us leaving, we are likely to get boarded anyway. The US Coast Guard breaks up the monotony of their patrols by boarding ships like this, where they think they can find something trivial rule that we’ve broken. What happens then? They’ll want to see our papers.”

  “Papers?”

  “Passports, and the ship’s papers.”

  “So we show them.”

  I raised my glass. “There is the problem. When we check in, we turn them in to the Port Captain who holds them until we check out.” That part was a lie, but I counted on Donna not being exactly well versed in such matters.

  She drank the last of her rum. “Jeez, you can be one negative sonofabitch. And they way you tell it, I can just picture the goddamn Coast Guard pouring over t
he railing in some random boarding.”

  “Well, even if it isn’t that dramatic, the US Coast Guard does love to harass inter-island commerce in the name of the war on drugs. They need to demonstrate the efficient burning of your tax dollars. Even if that didn’t happen, even if we passed unnoticed, arrival in a new country presents a new array of problems that start when we go to check in.”

  “What’s the problem? I’m not wanted in any other country.”

  “They’ll want to see the papers we are given when we check out here, the ones you want to skip getting. And we won’t have exit stamps in our passports.”

  “Shit. Damn bureaucracy.”

  “I couldn’t agree more.” I refilled the rum glasses. “You could… and I’m just tossing out ideas here, go to the police and tell them what you told me. Lead with the part about being innocent and probably a victim.”

  “Sure. And they’d lock me up while they check out my story.”

  “That’s a bit better than the alternative.”

  “Not if they put me in some local cracker box where Nate can find me — he is a pro, remember? I’d be dead by morning.”

  “What if I talk to the police for you?”

  “Right!”

  “I met the chief Inspector on the island today. Other than his insistence that Bill and I are somehow involved in this murder, Inspector George seems to be a reasonable person. Note that I’m not in jail.”

  “Lucky for you. Want to explain how that helps me? Or does it?”

  “It could. What if I went in and convinced him that you were in real danger and seriously needed his protection and his help? If Nate and Nick checked in with the Port Captain, we could show from the timing that they are real suspects. We can explain that they had more motive to do in poor Warren than you did. After all, he was helping you.”

  “You are slick,” she said. “Smooth. I almost believe you would do it — talk to the cops for me, I mean.” She sipped the rum. “But it would be a big risk letting you talk to the police alone,” she said.

  “How is that a risk? Right now, you are the prime suspect. I’d tell him the story, explain the danger you’d be in, and how you want to cooperate with his investigation if he can help you. If he agrees, then we’ve made things better; if he says no, things stay the same. The man wants to solve the case, after all. That’s all he cares about. It doesn’t matter to him if it’s you or Nate that hangs for it.”