"Ms. Berger, if you have any more problems, ask for me; I'm Detective Constable Lucas."
"Not for long, you're not. You may be through with me, but I haven't even started with you yet."
"I understand how you feel, Ms. Berger, but — "
"You couldn't possibly understand how I feel. If you know what's good for you, you'll keep these animals in line. I'll consider that when I get to talk to my lawyer. I know you can't hold me forever. Let me go, charge me, or kill me. Those are your choices, and I don't think you've got the guts for the last one."
****
"Sandrine? It's Liz."
"I thought you had gone back to Belgium for a few days," Sandrine said.
Liz shifted the phone to her left hand. "I just got back; I wrapped up my business there sooner than I expected."
"You are glad to be back, then? Now you are in the Rodney Bay with Dani?"
"That's why I'm calling. I can't find Dani. I wondered if you or Phillip had heard from her while I was gone."
"No. Please to wait the moment. Phillip wishes to speak."
"Hi, Liz. We're on the speaker now. What's going on?"
Liz told her friends about Dani's unexplained absence.
"So you talked to her this morning?" Phillip asked.
"No, but we traded emails. She suggested dinner at the place near the dinghy dock. I called her from the taxi to let her know I was in, but it went to voicemail. So did the one I made from the dinghy dock, and then when I got aboard, I found her phone on the chart table."
"What about her purse?" Sandrine asked.
"Dani doesn't have a purse. That canvas briefcase she carries is right here," Liz said, picking it up and opening it. "But the zippered wallet she keeps in there's missing. That's where she keeps her cash and credit cards and her passport."
"And the dinghy was there when you got there?" Phillip asked.
"Chained to the stern rail," Liz said. "Normally, we unlock it in the morning when we go ashore for coffee and pastries and then just tie it up for the rest of the day. We don't lock it until we're in for the night."
"So she left early, then, before breakfast, and with somebody else," Phillip said.
"Or perhaps the last evening," Sandrine added.
"I hadn't thought of that," Liz said.
"Did she have the date last night, maybe?" Sandrine asked.
"This is Dani we're talking about," Liz said, smiling at the notion of Dani with a date in spite of her worry. "She would have called me if something that exciting happened; she would have wanted to know what to wear, and ... no, I don't think so. That doesn't mean she didn't leave the boat last night, though."
"You said you traded emails this morning," Phillip said.
"Yes. Why?" Liz asked.
"How did she send her answer? Phone? Or laptop?"
"Ah, good thinking," Liz said. "Hold on. I used my phone for those emails from the airport this morning. Let me look. If I accidentally disconnect, I'll call right back." She held her phone in front of her and opened the email app, scrolling to Dani's response from earlier. Opening it, she saw the telltale "Sent from my iPhone" at the bottom, below Dani's signature. "Looks like she sent it from her phone."
"So she either stayed on the boat last night, or she came back sometime today and left the phone," Phillip said.
"That's right. The phone part worries me," Liz said. "She never goes anywhere without it. Think I should call the police?"
"You know how much good that's going to do, Liz," Phillip said. "You'll just get some junior person who's stuck answering the phone on the night watch."
"But if something happened to her, they might know," Liz said.
"Yes, but only if you get somebody in authority on the phone. That won't happen until morning. I'll call Cedric first thing; he'll be able to find out if anybody's heard anything about her, but he won't be able to run down anybody until normal office hours. And they won't take a missing person seriously until she's been gone for 24 hours or more, anyway."
Cedric Jones was the Deputy Commissioner of Police in St. Lucia, and an old friend and contact of Phillip Davis and Dani's father, J._P. Berger. "Should I call J._P.?" Liz asked.
"I don't think so; it's the middle of the night for him. No point worrying him until we know more."
"You have some Sancerre?" Sandrine asked.
"Yes, why?"
"Chilled?"
"Yes, but — "
"You must pour the big glass and drink to go to sleep. Do not worry about Dani. She is taking care of herself, by sure."
"Thanks, Sandrine."
"I'll call in the morning after I talk with Cedric," Phillip said. "Then we can decide what to do about calling J._P., if she hasn't shown up."
"Thanks, both of you," Liz said, as she disconnected the call.
****
Hamid Lanjwani locked the safe in his tiny office at the back of his grocery store before he answered his cellphone.
"Yah," he barked.
"The woman is back on the boat."
"I thought you said the police took her away."
"It is so," the caller said. "But she has come back. The man who sells fruit, he brought her just now."
"The police arrested her for killing Watson," Lanjwani said. "How is it that they have let her go so soon?"
"I do not know, Hamid. I only tell you what I can see with my own eyes. Perhaps one of your friends in the police can tell you more."
Hamid thought about that for a moment. Calling one of the policemen who was on his payroll would betray his interest in Herbert Watson's death. He did not want to be connected in any way to the demise of the infidel. In any case, the sinner had gotten no more than he deserved. Allah no doubt had willed Watson's death.
"If the police let her go, this means they will still be looking for Watson's killer. This is not a good thing, Samir. You are sure no one saw what happened on the beach?"
"Only the men we brought ashore, and you have them secure, no?"
"Yes. They are in the usual place, waiting for the next shipment to Tegucigalpa. You will have the passports ready?"
"Yes. Soon."
"You told me that the fisherman had positively identified that woman to the police as the killer?"
"It is so, emir. I was there, in the background. I heard him."
"What did he tell them, exactly?"
"That he had been fishing near her yacht, between the yacht and the beach, and that he heard her and Watson quarreling on the yacht. Watson dove into the water and swam for the beach. The woman, she followed in her small rubber boat and they fought on the beach, where she cursed him and stabbed him."
"And where is he now?"
"Who, emir?"
"The fisherman you paid, you fool. Our witness."
"Dead, emir, as you ordered. His remains will never be found; we sunk him in deep water, with his boat."
"Very well. Keep an eye on this woman; I do not like this development. Perhaps the police are doing some trick."
"Yes, emir."
Lanjwani hung up the phone and lit a cigarette; he took a deep drag and held it in, feeling the nicotine rush. Samir, the man who had called, was his wife's brother. He wasn't smart, but he was vicious. When Watson had stumbled out of the surf and into their midst the other night, Samir had killed him before Lanjwani could intervene.
They knew Watson, a beach bum. Handsome and muscular, he made a living keeping lonesome female tourists company. He supplemented his income from that by stealing from the yachts anchored off the beach.
Hamid and Samir had heard the disturbance a few minutes earlier when the woman had returned to the yacht and found Watson aboard. The vessel was anchored no more than 100 yards from where they stood waiting in the darkness. They had chuckled when the small blonde woman had thrown the man overboard, cursing him and threatening to kill him if she caught him on her boat again.
Hamid had watched, worried about how to handle the intrusion, as Watson swam toward them. T
he unlighted boat that they were expecting had almost run over him as it slipped through the still water. Its big engines were muffled to the point that they couldn't be heard from a few yards away, allowing it to come within feet of the swimmer before he noticed it. The crew had hustled their charges over the side into the knee-deep water and backed away, disappearing into the night.
Watson had emerged from the water in the midst of the newly arrived men and was asking what they were doing when Samir stabbed him. The boat was out of sight by then, and there had been no time to dispose of the body before dawn.
Samir, acting on Hamid Lanjwani's instructions, had stayed behind and swept the beach with palm fronds, covering their tracks, and had then paid a local fisherman to call the police and file the false eyewitness report. Samir knew him, and had spent the rest of the morning feeding him beer, finally asking the man to take him fishing well out to the west of St. Lucia. Samir's brother had been waiting out there with his own boat to bring Samir back.
Hamid couldn't imagine how the woman had gotten out of jail; there was no way she could have had an alibi, nor had anyone else seen them on the beach. Of that, he was certain. He crushed out his cigarette and locked his office. It was time to go upstairs; Sairah would have his dinner ready soon.
Chapter 3
Liz lay in bed waiting for the sun to rise. She forced herself to lie still even though she couldn't sleep. She had passed a restless night, waking with a start every few minutes, wondering where Dani was. She knew she couldn't accomplish anything until morning, but that didn't make the waiting any easier.
As the reddish gold light of sunrise came through the portlight over her berth, she rolled to a sitting position and rubbed her eyes. She needed coffee, but first, she went to the head and splashed cold water on her face, soothing her bloodshot eyes.
She spooned ground coffee into the French press coffee maker as the water heated on the stove. Fidgeting, she turned on the VHF radio, checking to make sure it was set to dual watch on channels 16 and 68. There was an informal radio net for cruising boats on channel 68 at 8:30 a.m. She glanced at the clock and grimaced when she saw that it was a little after six o'clock.
After pouring boiling water into the coffee press, Liz began rummaging in the locker where they kept baked goods. She found a greasy white paper bag with the top folded over and opened it, peering inside. Pushing the waxed paper in the bag aside, she found a pain au chocolat. She prodded it with her index finger and decided it wasn't too stale.
She pressed the plunger of the coffee pot down and set it on a tray with a mug. Lifting the lid on the refrigerator, she took out a carton of heavy cream and poured a dollop into the mug. She shook the day-old pastry from its bag onto a plate and put that and a fork on her tray. Lifting it through the companionway, she set it on the bridge deck.
Climbing the companionway ladder into the cockpit, she set her breakfast on the fold-out table. Her forearms on the table as she took a small bite of the pastry, she sought comfort in the adherence to ritual.
It wasn't working; she missed Dani's company. She made herself continue, going through the motions of pouring coffee and stirring it, knowing that she still had hours to kill before she could make any progress toward finding her friend.
She raised the mug, holding it under her nose and enjoying the rich aroma of the French-roast coffee, thinking that Dani must have ground it fresh yesterday. They kept whole coffee beans and ground enough for a day or two at a time; it stayed fresh longer that way in the humid atmosphere.
Dani would have probably had a cup of coffee here 24 hours ago, enjoying the peace of the early morning before the tourists at the nearby beach resort woke up. The guests there began water skiing and riding jet skis soon after breakfast. Their antics were amusing, but the racket was annoying. She and Dani often lingered over coffee to watch the pale people frolic in the warm, green water.
Liz took a sip of the coffee and put the mug on the table, turning to take in the boats anchored near them. She recognized several as having been here before she left, but there were a few newcomers, as well.
Vengeance was the largest vessel in the immediate vicinity, and the only charter yacht. The others had the appearance of long-term, liveaboard cruising boats. That was good, Liz thought. Cruisers treated an anchorage like it was their neighborhood; they watched the comings and goings of people from boats near their own, on the lookout for anything out of the ordinary.
Cruising people typically fell into rhythm with nature, too. They went to sleep early and rose with the sun. There was a woman beginning her yoga routine on the bow of a boat off to the starboard side, her male partner doing calisthenics in the cockpit.
Liz studied the other boats, noticing who was up and about. She decided to finish her coffee and the stale pain au chocolat and get in the dinghy. She would make the rounds of the anchorage and see if anyone had noticed Dani's departure yesterday. If nothing else, it would occupy her until it was late enough to call the police.
****
Detective Constable Lucas stood at the gas dock on the canal that led into Rodney Bay Lagoon. He was sipping his first coffee of the morning from a paper cup. Studying the fishing boats that were pulled up on the embankment, he watched the fishermen loading their boats with ice and bait. A few had already returned, laden with fish, and were preparing to go out again.
Lucas had asked after Derek Mitchum, the man who had reported seeing Berger chase Herbert Watson to the beach and stab him, but no one had seen Mitchum since early yesterday morning. Another boat came in to unload their catch, the two men aboard talking with the others for a moment and then turning to look at Lucas. One of them handed something to the other and walked up the embankment, approaching Lucas.
"You lookin' fo' Derek Mitchum?"
Lucas nodded.
"What fo' you want him?"
"He gave a report to one of my men yesterday, and I wanted to ask him some questions about it."
"Report? 'Bout what?"
"He witnessed someone killing Herbert Watson on the beach near the Gros Islet breakwater."
"Hmph," the fisherman said. He held Lucas's gaze for a few seconds and then turned his head to the side and spat. "Mitchum took somebody fishin' 'bout midday. Ain't been aroun' since then."
"Where does he live?"
The fisherman shrugged. "On he boat, mos'ly, I t'ink."
Lucas fought his impatience. "And where does he keep his boat?"
"Down to Marigot, mos' of the time."
"You think he'd be down there now?"
The man shrugged. "Mebbe. Nobody see he come back here since he take the mon fishin'."
"Can anybody identify the man who went fishin' with him?"
The man shook his head. "Indian, Pakistani, mebbe. They all the same. Don' mix wit' us much. Tha's all anybody know. I mus' go; we got mo' fish to catch. The day, she young still."
"Thanks for your time," Lucas said, to the man's retreating back. Most of the other boats were gone now. Lucas crushed his empty coffee cup and flung it into the trash barrel. He stomped off to his car and got in, slamming the door.
After a few frustrating minutes dodging the pedestrians in Gros Islet, he stopped the car at the edge of the road near the beach where Watson's body had been found. He walked down to the water, scuffing his toe in the sand as he looked around. There was no sign of the crime that had taken place here a little over 24 hours ago.
He stared out at the boats anchored off the beach, picking out Berger's with no difficulty. It was nearly twice the size of the others, and its varnished teak brightwork reflected the morning sun like burnished gold. He had gone aboard yesterday when the crime scene team had searched the boat; they'd found nothing.
The clearance paperwork had indicated that another woman, a Belgian named Liesbet Chirac, had been on the boat with Berger when it arrived. There was no sign of Chirac, and Berger had declined to answer any questions about her. A computer search by immigration had revealed that Chirac ha
d boarded a flight to Brussels via Fort-de-France and Paris almost two weeks ago.
Something about the boat was different; something had changed since yesterday. He stared, searching his memory. There had been a dinghy behind the boat yesterday, a rigid inflatable with an outboard motor. It was missing this morning.
He wondered briefly if someone had stolen it; an unoccupied yacht this close to shore was an inviting target for thieves who swam out from shore. Unfortunately, Watson wasn't the only local man to supplement his income that way. But then Lucas remembered that the dinghy had been locked to the yacht's stern with a heavy stainless steel chain, making a casual theft unlikely.
As he watched, the wind shifted, and the yachts swung. He could now see the other side of Berger's yacht; the dinghy was snugged up alongside, like someone had moved it in preparation for using it. He caught a flicker of movement in the yacht's cockpit and saw that a woman was sitting there, drinking coffee, facing away from shore.
He took his cell phone from his pocket and called the harbor police, asking for a launch from Rodney Bay to swing by the yacht and see who was aboard. He declined the opportunity to accompany them, and cautioned them to tell the woman aboard nothing about what had happened yesterday. Assuming the woman aboard was Chirac, he worried that she would have questions, questions that he did not wish to answer.
****
Liz tied the dinghy off alongside Vengeance. She had bailed a couple of gallons of water from the dinghy after she unlocked it. That was another indication that Dani had not used it yesterday, since there had been no rain since the night before Liz returned.
Looking at her watch, she decided to have another cup of coffee while it was still hot. It was a little early to go calling on the neighbors, even if they were up and moving around. She had just taken a sip when a small, ratty-looking local boat pulled alongside, its outboard rattling like it might explode.
"Good morning, ma'am," she heard, as the outboard went quiet. She looked over her shoulder to see a man peering from beneath a large hat woven from green palm fronds. Turning without getting up, she returned his greeting, noticing that there were several objects in the little boat that were woven in a similar fashion.
Bluewater Jailbird: The Tenth Novel in the Caribbean Mystery and Adventure Series (Bluewater Thrillers Book 10) Page 2