Once the computer was running, he opened his email. Exactly one. A message from Amazon recommending different types of firearm holsters based on his past purchases. He perused a few of them, decided his old holster was fine, and picked up a file in a basket on his desk.
One of his open cases was a woman, a summer native only on the island from April until August, who thought her husband was cheating on her with a cocktail waitress at one of the bars. Mark had followed him around for a week and didn’t see him do anything but lie on the beach, play tennis, and go to the gym. He thought the woman was nuts until he realized the husband was going to the gym at odd hours. Mark followed him into the gym.
The husband strolled right through the gym and the side door. Mark trailed him there, too. The man rounded a corner, walked straight to a little hotel on the beach, and kissed a beautiful woman in front of the building before going inside.
Mark hadn’t told the wife yet, and he wasn’t particularly looking forward to that conversation. Those wealthy enough to summer in the islands were a different breed he wasn’t quite used to. He saw some of them in Hollywood and the more upscale areas in L.A., but for the most part, he didn’t understand how differently the super-rich lived from those that weren’t. The fact was, the woman was probably cheating on him as well and looking for extra ammunition in the looming divorce.
Mark flipped through the file, organized his photos, and drafted his official report. He read it twice then printed it out and placed it in the file. He looked to the clock on his desktop. An hour had passed, and it was eleven now.
Precisely sixteen places to eat were in the city, and he was on a sixteen-day rotation through them all. Today was a place near the beach that specialized in seafood. That morning’s catch was their menu, written on a chalkboard in blue and green chalk. Mark strolled there, enjoying the heat and the summer breeze, and sat on the veranda.
Tourists were the lifeblood of this island and given special treatment at every turn. But they weren’t a bad crowd, not like some he had seen. For the most part, they shopped, they ate, they went to dinner parties and the one nightclub in the city to dance, and that was it. The beaches were like background scenery or a painting. Something for them to look at but not really enjoy. Few tourists, with the exception of those with children, even went down to the beach except to lie on a chair and get sun. They mostly left the water to the locals.
Mark ordered a beer and scallops. The fat, round scallops, the edges wrinkled, arrived with a spicy curry sauce. The scallops still tasted of ocean salt, fried up a little with butter and lemon then served.
He ate all of them then licked his fingers, a habit his wife used to tell him he had to break. At restaurants, she scolded him for doing it and made him feel like a child. He wondered if she did that to her current husband, too.
He checked the clock on his phone then ordered a batch of scallops and a chocolate milk to go. He left a generous tip, which over here wasn’t much more than a couple of dollars, and left the restaurant.
The one school in the city, about two blocks outside of downtown, catered to children from kindergarten through middle school. By the time they reached high school, either they had picked out their professions and stopped their education, or they moved to a bigger island to complete it. The school wasn’t much more than a large house connected to two other large houses, beautifully sculpted, with trimmed bushes, darkly tiled roofs, and even a corridor with no roof so the children could enjoy the direct sunlight during the day.
Mark sauntered inside the school. The kids were just getting ready for lunch. He went to the cafeteria, and the familiar face he saw every day was there.
“How are you, friend?” Mariah said.
“Good.” He handed her the bag with the scallops and milk. “How’s everything here?”
“Living the dream.” She grinned, not taking her eyes off the food she was preparing. “Hey, you going to that beach party tonight?”
“Which one is that?”
“The one the selectmen are putting on. Some big shot is here from an oil company and they’re throwing him a party. Open bars and all the oysters you can eat.”
“Wasn’t planning on it, but maybe I’ll stop by.”
She stopped what she was doing and looked at him. “You need to get out of your house sometimes, Mark. It’s good to be around other people.”
“I’m around other people all the time. I’m here with you, I have a meeting with a client at two, then I’ll joke around with my secretary for a while, and then I’ll go home. That’s plenty.”
She shook her head and went back to work. “Suit yourself. But we got some cute girls on this island that have asked about you.”
“Tell them I’m spoken for. Whenever you put in for that divorce, I’m ready.”
She blushed lightly and chuckled. Though he was kidding—she was twice his age, for one thing—she never let a compliment go unnoticed.
“Have a good one, Mariah.”
He ambled around the school and caught a glimpse of the courtyard where the children ate lunch. Kalou didn’t have any subsidized lunch programs. The children ate what they brought with them or bought lunches from Mariah.
One day, as Mark was walking by the school, a young boy sat by himself in the corner of the courtyard. Mariah was also a tour guide and had shown him around the island when he’d first arrived, and he asked her about the boy. Nothing unusual about a boy sitting by himself. Mark had been the same way as a child, but the boy was so sullen, so melancholy, that he felt compelled to ask.
Mariah told him the boy’s father had run off, leaving him and his mother to fend for themselves. The mother did odd jobs here and there to feed them, but jobs on the island were scarce. The boy, Mariah informed him, ate only one meal a day at home. He had to skip lunch.
So every day, Mark bought two lunches. One for himself and one dropped off at the school for the boy. Mark made Mariah swear she would never tell him where the lunches came from. He didn’t want the boy to feel like a charity case. But before noon, without fail for the past two years, he had brought lunch for him.
The boy’s face lit up as Mariah waddled over and gave him the lunch. She had been telling him it was just part of the school’s program to provide it. The boy immediately opened the chocolate milk and took a long swig before digging into the scallops.
Mark grinned and walked back to his office. He would wait there for the mysterious client to show up.
3
Mark read the LA Times in his office. He had grown up there, and he liked to stay abreast of the goings on in the city. Apparently, the city council had voted in favor of English-only schools within the city and then, due to mass protests, had changed their vote and voted against it. Because of backlash from the opposing side, they might reverse their decision again. He had no idea how the hell idiots were always the ones in power.
Two o’clock rolled around, and he waited twenty minutes, browsing a few other websites before he decided this potential client wasn’t showing up. But as he turned his computer off and prepared to leave for the day, his secretary buzzed him. “She’s here.”
“Okay, send her back.”
Mark sat down at the desk again. He was suddenly self-conscious about his appearance. He would probably describe it as casual island attire. Definitely no suits or ties involved. Anywhere else, they would probably think he was a bum and wouldn’t hire him for a nickel. But in this place, with these people, it was completely expected. He hoped she’d been on the island long enough to realize that.
Kalou’s mode of life was much slower. Everyone was expected to take his or her time. No one could take blame for coming into work late or missing particularly nice days when the beach called. Employers and customers predominantly understood things like that. Mark wasn’t upset she was late and in fact chastised himself for being so uptight about it.
His door opened, and his secretary led in a young woman. She was perhaps thirty, maybe thirty-two, and w
earing a red skirt with nylons and heels. A black top finished off her outfit. Something for an office, not an island, and he guessed she hadn’t been here long. Or perhaps she thought this was how one dressed when meeting with a private investigator.
Mark rose and held out his hand. “Mark Whittaker.”
“Riki Gilmore, nice to meet you.”
They shook hands then sat down across from each other. She crossed her legs and looked him in the eyes. Few people that came into his office did that. Their eyes usually darted around and they fidgeted.
“I was referred to you by Police Chief Koroi. He said you might be able to help me.”
“What exactly is it you need help with?”
She pulled up a photo on her phone and handed it to him. On the screen was a young man, perhaps no more than twenty. “My brother. He disappeared here two weeks ago.”
“Here as in Vusa?”
“Yes. Well, just outside the city. He was on the beach, Chaundry Beach, and he called me. We spoke for a while, and he hung up. No one’s heard from him since. He didn’t check back into the hotel, he never called his girlfriend, nothing. He just vanished.”
“Hm.” Mark handed the phone back to her. “You sure he didn’t just lose his phone?”
“No. His girlfriend is pregnant. He’d been calling her several times a day. If he’d lost his phone, he could just call from the hotel until he got a new one. But the hotel said the last time they saw him was that day. Two weeks ago, the day I talked to him. As far as I know, I was the last person to talk to him. His name’s Billy Gilmore.”
“Where’s he from?”
“San Diego. That’s where we live. He hasn’t called into his job, either. They had to replace him.”
Mark leaned back in his seat and glanced out the window at a passing car, an old Buick or Chrysler with rust on the side. “Sorry for asking these questions, but I have to be thorough. Is it possible your brother ran off with another woman?”
“Not a chance. He loves her. Something’s happened. I just know it. I flew out here a week ago and went to the police. They don’t care. They said they would file a report and look into it, but I don’t even know if they’ve done that.”
He shook his head. “Without any evidence of what happened, they won’t look too deeply. Have you tried the consulate?”
“They’re even worse. They made an entry on their computer and said they would call me if he turned up.”
Mark considered his options. Had he been desperate for cash, he would’ve jumped at the case. But he wasn’t wanting for money. His pension from the police force and the few thousand dollars a year he made here were more than enough to meet, and exceed, all his needs. So the only real question was whether he wanted to take the case.
When he finally made detective his last year on the LAPD, he worked for six months in the Missing Persons division. Most MPs were actually just runaways. Or people that had up and left their families without a word to their spouses or children. Murders, kidnappings, and accidental deaths weren’t as common. And that was in Los Angeles. He couldn’t even imagine the odds against a murder on a small island where everybody was in everybody else’s business.
The problem was that, if he actually found Billy and discovered he had run off to Las Vegas or Mexico or somewhere and shacked up with a cocktail waitress, the family would be bitter and angry. And Mark might be the target of that bitterness. Though unlikely, Fiji had strict refund laws surrounding services to tourists. A lawsuit was an easy thing to bring if the family wanted their money back or a reduced fee and Mark didn’t provide it.
Besides, finding missing people, even on a small island, was a lot of work. He enjoyed waking up at ten and leaving work at three every day.
“I’ll tell you what, Ms. Gilmore, I’ll think about it.”
“What’s there to think about? I’ll pay your fee.”
“I know, but it’s just a matter of whether or not I want to take the case. Give me a day to sleep on it, will ya?”
“Sure.” She stuffed her phone back into her purse. “My brother’s probably dead in some ditch, and you want time to think about it.”
Mark kept quiet as she rose, said “thank you” curtly, and stormed out of the office.
4
The crackle of lightning startled Mark as he walked out of his building. Storms, though infrequent, appeared out of nowhere, pouring over the island in anger then disappearing.
Massive rain droplets crashed into the pavement and the trees. Mark lifted his collar and trotted to his car. The home, tucked neatly on a hill between other massive houses, was no more than ten miles away. Something they called McMansions back in Los Angeles.
He parked about a hundred feet from the house. There were no gates here. Back in L.A., a home like this, with all the luxuries sitting around inside, would be gated off with night security around. But here, there was little to fear from people. The biggest dangers were the undertow and the mosquitoes.
Hiking up the winding driveway, a folder tucked under his arm, the amount of space struck him. The mansion probably contained nine or so bedrooms. Nine bedrooms for a middle-aged couple with no kids. While back in town, in what was considered the slums of the city—though really, even the slums were better than many nicer parts of other cities—people crammed into tenements. Five or ten at a time in a one-bedroom tenement.
Mark noticed a deep gold trim at the tops of the porch’s Corinthian columns. He looked to them as he knocked on the door. A woman wearing white, almost see-through pants and a white top with a tan belt answered. She was holding a wine glass filled with an amber drink.
“Mark,” she said with a hint of surprise in her voice. “I wasn’t expecting you.”
“No, sorry. I shoulda called first. But I thought I would just pop in and see if you were here.”
“You’re getting soaked, poor thing. Come in.”
The interior of the home was even more impressive. A mixture of glass, black and white furniture, expensive paintings, and a staircase with no railing leading to the second floor. The artwork was not in Mark’s usual sphere. He didn’t recognize them but somehow knew they were originals and worth a heck of a lot more than he would probably ever make in his life.
“It’s about your husband, Callie.”
“Did you find something?” She sat down on the couch.
He got the impression he was supposed to sit next to her but opted instead to sit on the leather recliner next to a glass coffee table. “I did. I’m afraid your suspicions were correct.” He pulled out the folder and laid several photos on the coffee table. Her husband kissing his mistress, her husband grabbing her butt as they entered a store, her husband walking into a hotel with her. “Sorry, Callie. I know this is hard to take.”
She sipped the wine then sighed. “No, no it was expected. He’s an ass. And this isn’t the first time. I’m preparing for a divorce. I’m just waiting to get back to Connecticut, and I’ll file first. This is just additional… whatever.”
“Oh. Well, I’m sorry just the same.”
She sipped her wine again, her gaze glued to him. He grew uncomfortable and decided it was time to leave.
“I’ll email you the reports and the photos today. If you need anything else, please don’t hesitate to get in touch with me.”
“You’re leaving? Stay a little bit. Join me for a glass of wine.”
“I gotta get back to the city. Have some things to catch up on.” He rose. “Again, call me if you need anything.”
“Mark?” She placed her hand on his arm. “I would really like if you stayed. Not as part of the job. Just as a… friend.”
“Um… I better not. I really do have to get back.”
Her face lost the softness of just a moment ago. Her lips turned to straight lines, and her eyes narrowed. “Fine. Go.”
At the door, he heard her say something but didn’t stay to find out what. Callie didn’t strike him as a woman that was used to rejection, and he didn’t kno
w how she would react. Probably not pay her bill, at the least. He had to change tactics and start taking payments up front.
As he walked to the car, another vehicle came up the driveway. Callie’s husband, Richard. He stopped his black Mercedes and rolled down the window. Mark kept his head down and kept walking. Hoping he could just slide by.
“Excuse me,” Richard said. “Do I know you?”
“No.”
“Hey, wait a second, I’m talking to you. What’re you doing at my house?”
“I think you and your wife should have a talk, Mr. Donavan.”
The driveway wasn’t large enough for the car to turn around, and Richard didn’t get out of the car. Once at his own car, Mark glanced back at the house. Richard watched him from the front porch.
Mark couldn’t decide which of them he felt sorrier for.
Mark spent the rest of the day lounging on the beach. He soaked up as much sun as he could, as he did most days. So much that he was probably permanently brown now. Many of the fishermen had the same skin color, a dark brown that was almost orange. But the salt and wind of a lifetime on the ocean had also shaped their skin into a leathery texture.
As evening fell, Mark sipped a beer and ate a light dinner of rice and curry chicken. Maybe a few hundred yards down the beach, the party kicked into gear. Some red and white banners were up declaring a welcome to the oil executive, and a live band was there, playing, of all things, reggae music. The crowd was growing larger, particularly at the two open bars on either side of the party.
Mark debated going down. He was in the middle of a good book, a non-fiction piece about a squad of Marines stranded on a Japanese island during the Second World War. But the book could wait. Besides, reading put him to sleep after a short while, and he preferred doing it at night.
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