Fatal Chances (The Red Lake Series Book 5)

by Rich Foster

  “Have you checked with the Bahamian Authorities to see if he cleared customs?”

  “As I said, you need to speak to the Panamanians regarding this investigation.. I am sorry but that is the best I can offer you.”

  Julia Stockman called as he was leaving the Sterling Line's office.

  “Mr. Grim, I've been released and I am on my way to the airport. I see no point in waiting around to be dragged in for questioning by those boorish policemen or to be accused of Harvey's murder, which one of them is likely to dream up anytime now.”

  The police have probably already thought of that, sister, Harry silently said to himself. Evidently, they are awaiting developments that nobody expects to occur.

  “I thought I might fly over to Nassau and speak to the Bahamian authorities. Perhaps, Harvey returned to shore.”

  “That's fine. I'll cover your expenses, just try to keep them reasonable. I don't want to be covering your gambling losses on Paradise Island.”

  “One other thing, did anything out of the ordinary occur that day?”

  “Like what?”

  “Did you fight? Did Harvey argue with anyone? Did you notice anybody following you? Did Harvey act strange in any way?”

  “No, Harvey was his usual self. We had a pleasant time on the waterfront but as I said after we returned to the ship I fell asleep and never saw him again.”

  Harry was about to ask another question but she cut him off.

  “Were at the airport, I have to run if I want to get through security and catch my flight.”

  Harry flagged a cab and said to the driver, merely, "Airport." While en route he booked a ticket on Bahamas Air and a room at the Nassau Palm Resort, a hotel he picked by price rather than by reviews. It was a little after noon when the cab dropped him. He picked up his ticket, waited through security, and found he had thirty minutes until his departure. He waited in line again to get a sandwich that was mediocre. He washed it down with a beer that was grossly overpriced and lacking any head.

  By the time he was done he had to hurry to get reach the gate and they were making last call when he arrived. The plane was a small turbo prop, noisy and a bit cramped but it was only a fifty-five minute flight.

  Outside the storm of the morning had dissipated and the regal blue gulf waters sparkled with occasional flecks of white frosting on the crest of the wave.

  The nose dropped and then engines throttled back as they began their descent. To the starboard he could see the white crush coral beach and turquoise water that beckoned tourist to come and stay forever. They passed over a cluster of canals with homes clustered cheek to jowl, the draw being the opportunity to have ones sport fishing boat tied up behind the house. An open field sped past below them and then they were touching down on a straight in approach.

  *

  The weather was everything a snowbird dreams of, the humidity was lower than in Miami and a sultry breeze brought thoughts of eternal youth. O the beach they passed coming from the airport, an endless parade of bikini clad girls added to the dream. Harry closed his eyes, the loss of sleep catching up with him unexpectedly. When he opened them they were at the Nassau Palms.

  The desk clerk looked dubiously at Harry's small carry-on bag, as if one who traveled that light could only be rich or up to no good and if they were rich they would not be at the Palms.

  His room was on the fourth floor and had a nice view along the Western Esplanade Beach and Arawak Cay. The bed cried out to for him to embrace it. He wanted nothing more than to be idle and lie down for a nap but felt obligated to see the authorities first.

  In the lobby he asked for the address of the Royal Bahamian Police office. According to the clerk, whose smile was fetching enough to make-up for any other short comings in her face, the station was within easy walking distance on North East Street.

  Outside the hotel the same cabbie was awaiting for another fare. The driver eagerly opened the door, but Harry shook his head, no.

  “But man, I've got seven children to feed!”

  Harry reached in his pocket and pulled out an American five dollar bill, “Buy some condoms, friend, it'll help you more in the long run.”

  “Why you be dissing me, man?” the cabbie whined, but he stuffed the bill in his shirt pocket, dissed or not. Harry strolled away. The driver pulled out and followed along slowly, “Hey friend why don't you hop in?”

  Harry shook his head.

  “Maybe later, you'll need a ride?” he asked against the odds.

  Harry simply waved and the cabbie finally took off.

  The Central Police Station was easy enough to find. At the reception counter he stated his business and was asked to take a seat. Despite what some believe about the islands the staff responded with alacrity, within three minutes a man approached with his hand outstretched, “Mr. Grim, I am Tyrell Sanderson, Senior Assistant Commissioner of Police for Crime Management. I understand you have questions about a missing person.”

  Sanderson's uniform was tailored and pressed to military precision. The crease in his trousers might well give paper cuts. He shoulders squared even when at ease and he exuded an air of self-confidence.

  “Yes, my client's husband went missing from the Sterling Princess when it was last in port.”

  Sanderson opened a thin file, a picture of the Stockmans was clipped to the papers. ”Yes we have received the report from the Miami authorities. This picture was taken by the ships photographer. Your client is a beautiful woman.”

  Harry nodded his silent agreement. Sanderson continued, “But there is some question as to when Mr. Stockman disappeared, if it was three miles offshore it is outside our jurisdiction. “

  “I know, and that may well be the case, but it is possible he debarked here.”

  “We have checked and he did not clear customs. Unless he dove off the boat and swam to shore we would have known. And as you must know, that it is a long jump from even the lower decks of a modern cruise ship.”

  “But it might be possible?”

  The man shrugged, momentarily rippling the fabric of his jacket but like a wave washing ashore the disturbance died away and the jacket resumed a smooth, shimmery surface.

  “Yes it could be, however, I understand Mr. Stockroom’s passport was aboard the ship. It would be difficult to live very long in the islands without one.”

  “So you think this is a dead end?”

  “I think in all likelihood your client is a widow, Mr. Grim. If Mr. Stockman was pushed, fell, or jumped overboard it would be a long fall that he might well die from. And if he survived that, he would find our waters warm but the sharks coldblooded. I am sorry that I can not be of more help to you.”

  “Could I get a copy of that photo, I don't have a snapshot of Mr. Stockman and his wife was detained by the authorities until this morning, so I did not get a picture.”

  The Assistant Superintendent smiled with an arc of white, made even whiter by his black skin. “Certainly.”

  The interview was over. Harry thanked him for his time and a couple minutes later he stepped out into the late afternoon sun with a photocopy in his hand. The streets were crowded as merchants began closing up shop. He was hungry and tired. Fatigue won the battle as what to do next. He flagged a passing cab and returned to his hotel.

  Harry intended to take a brief nap, instead he woke up at three in the morning. He stepped out onto the balcony to enjoy the balmy night air. Anchor lights and running lights offshore twinkled like beacons of hope and adventure. He thought about cigarettes and night patrols in Afghanistan. He thought about Paula and the slight undefined friction their relationship developed recently. Answers eluded him. After an hour watching the lights of the night he returned to bed.

  *

  The hotel breakfast was better than average.

  Outside, large cumulus clouds set sail upon the azure sky and drifted west toward the mainland. By eight o'clock Harry was walking among the open air market stalls on Bay street. As the vendors of straw ha
ts and hawkers of souvenirs set up shop he showed the photo of the Stockman's, but it was a port town no one recognized them. It was long odds at best to even try. But odds can be broken.

  She was a wizened old lady who had lost a few of the white pearls that were her teeth, but she smiled anyway. Holding the photocopy that was becoming crinkled and slightly damp from handling by many hands, she said, “I see thousands of people, Mister. Most of them I barely look at. Besides, no offense but all of you white people look the same.”

  Harry chuckled.

  “No,” she continued, “I don't recall him but I do remember her.”

  She tapped Julia Stockman for emphasis. “I remember the unhappy ones. These tourist, they are all rich, they have plenty of money to spend, they laugh and drink and that is good, but every now and then you see the ones that are sick. The evil spirit has them and they don't smile or laugh. They have no music inside their heart and all of their money does nothing for them.”

  Harry didn't bother to tell her the Stockman's were long on bills and short on credit. She had the insight that there was something wrong in their marriage.

  “They argued. The man with her wanted her to try on a straw hat, She didn't want to. I hoped she would, every sale counts. He put it on her head despite her protest and said it was charming and she should consider it. To which she said, it was time they considered a divorce.”

  "Divorce? You are sure?"

  The woman nodded. "It is a word we all hear too often, no?'"

  “Anything else?”

  “No, she just walked away. But I think to myself, my man loves me and my children love me and my grandchildren, they love me too, so perhaps I am the richer one.”

  *

  Harry sipped bourbon slouched in a deck chair on his front porch overlooking Red Lake. An early season sailboat cut smartly across the water, heeling hard on the breeze.

  “So, other than learning for the second time that Julia Stockman is a liar and racking up some billable hours the trip was a waste," he said.

  “You mean they are doing nothing?” Paula incredulously asked.

  “From what I have learned this is not a one off problem. People think that the cruise industry is well regulated, but it is not. The port of registry is the weak link in the chain of responsibility and almost all of the cruise lines hide behind it.”

  “So what happened to Stockman?”

  “It's a limited choice. He fell overboard, someone pushed him overboard. Or he found some way to leave the ship unnoticed and unrecorded.”

  “But why do that?”

  “Well the man has unpaid bills. He suspects his wife of cheating. Maybe he decided to skip town and start life over?”

  “So what do you think happened?”

  “I'd bet he's dead. If you were planning to skip out why pay me? Why not take as much cash as possible? And he left his passport behind."

  “Maybe it was on impulse?”

  “I doubt it. People who take off usually plan ahead On the other hand, murder often happens when hatred meets opportunity.”

  “So do you think his wife killed him?”

  “The spouse is usually numero uno. Something unhealthy was going on in that relationship. Besides, Julia Stockman is a liar. She told me she didn't care to shop. Yet, when I tailed her it was her major pastime.”

  “So if she was responsible, why pay to have you fly down, especially if they are broke?”

  Harry shrugged and took a belt of liquor to facilitate his thoughts.

  “Cover. It makes her appear concerned. If she planned to kill her husband she probably knew I would come up against a bureaucratic dead end.”

  “So they've released her and that's it?”

  “As far as the Miami authorities are concerned, yes. They concluded that in all probability Harvey Stockman disappeared while the ship was in the Bahamian or International Waters, therefore they have no jurisdiction. The police in Miami took her statement and forwarded it to Panama., where I presume the case will languish in a file cabinet.”

  Paula shook her head, “I think that's terrible, you should do something!”

  “Like what?”

  “I don't know but someone should do something and you're as good as anyone at stirring up trouble!”

  Chapter Four

  Harry figured it would pass, but Paula did let the Stockman story go. A week later she walked into the inner office holding the Beaumont Star in her hand.

  “She's having a memorial service!”

  Harry looked up from his computer, “Who's she?”

  “Julia Stockman! They don't even know for sure that he's dead!”

  “Maybe it is her way of moving on.”

  “I think you should talk to the sheriff.”

  It was the fourth time she made the suggestion.

  “It's not even in his jurisdiction!” Harry futilely protested.

  Paula pushed her chin out, “He could ask the Beaumont Police if they've heard anything.”

  Sheriff Gaines was an institution in Red Lake. In the past Harry and Gaines crossed paths, came to blows, and even worked together. They respected one another, but neither foolishly believed the other was ever being fully open.

  Gaines liked his county to be peaceable even if tourism made quiet an impossibility. However, crime found a place in the mountain communities, people still vented their passions causing domestic disturbances and at times murder. Thefts occurred and occasionally robberies were committed. He stayed busy. Gaines looked up from his desk to see Harry on the far side of the counter in the outer office. He waved him in.

  “Harry, to what do I owe this pleasure?”

  Harry laughed. “Translated that means, what do I want?”

  “I couldn't say it better.”

  Harry took the chair opposite the desk.

  “I worked for a guy from Beaumont, who thought his wife was cheating a couple months back. She wasn't but she was being followed. This news did not seem to concern my client. A couple weeks ago they went on a cruise and the guy disappeared. Because it was on the high seas the investigation was turned over to the country of registry, which in this case is Panama. The wife asked me to come down, why I am not sure and in fact it was a waste of time. I was completely stonewalled.”

  “I don't see how this possibly concerns me?”

  “It doesn't but Paula thinks I should be doing something, so I came to ask a favor, could you call the Beaumont Police or Parson's County Sheriff and see if they received any inquires.”

  “And then what?”

  “Then I tell Paula people are taking care of it and I can forget it.”

  “Your girlfriend can be a hard woman to please at times, Harry.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  Gaines smiled, enjoying Harry's discomfort at even the semblance of being henpecked. “Okay, what's your clients name?”

  Harvey Stockman, his wife's name is Julia.”

  “Oh.” The sheriff said nothing else for a minute.

  Harry waited, he was accustomed to waiting.

  When he spoke Gaines' voice was vexed, “I figured you had an angle!”

  “About what?” Harry asked genuinely confused.

  “The Donatello murder last fall!”

  “What murder?”

  “Last November, after we broke the Alison Albright case, Stockman's sister-in-law, Jillian was murdered at his lake house.”

  Harry held up one finger, “I was on vacation last November. I don't recall anything about a murder.”

  Gaines appeared somewhat mollified. “You sure, Harry? You wouldn't be stringing me along for some nefarious purpose?”

  “No I swear I never heard of this killing, nor Jillian Stockman. Harvey Stockman said his wife began to be withdrawn following the death of his wife's sister but that was all.”

  “Her name wasn't Stockman. She was married to Vito Donatello from Las Vegas.”

  “That sounds like an organized crime connection or am I making ethnic ste
reotypes?”

  “No Donatello is a mid level crime boss, drugs and prostitution being his specialties according to the Las Vegas police, not that they have been successful in prosecuting him. The guy has been indicted four times but never convicted”

  “Why not?”

  “Witnesses died or developed sudden memory loss.”

  “So how did she end up dead around here?”

  “According to Julia Stockman, her husband did not want them to associate or at least where they might be seen together. So Jillian flew into Beaumont and went up to the Stockman's cabin here on Red Lake. Evidently, Donatello didn't trust his wife or feared his enemies because he had her followed by one of his men.”

  Gaines paused to recall a name, then continued, “Frankie Goth was watching the house when Jillian got whacked by a hit team presumably out of Mexico or Columbia.”

  Goth doesn't sound Italian.”

  “Maybe the mob is an equal opportunity employer? Anyway we had two witnesses, Goth and the sister Julia.”

  “They left a witness behind?”

  “She was in the bathroom and from a crack in the door she saw two Hispanic guys spike her sister with a hypo. It was a full load of pure smack, she never had a chance. Julia hid behind the door. They probably would have searched the house but Goth was staying in a cabin on the opposite shore of Gulls Bay, as soon as he saw the guys charging the house he ran down to the water and hopped into a boat. I guess the hitters saw him coming because by November the docks were all out of the water and a boat heading straight in their direction would be suspect.”

  Harry shook his head. “Wow, does everybody lie? Stockman never told me anything about this.”

  “Now you know how I feel, Harry.”

  “So did you catch them?”

  “No, the bad guys took off in a boat of their own, which turned out to be stolen. Goth chased them down the lake but he was hit during an exchange of gun fire. So he came back to the house.”

  “What about the shooters?”