by Gregg Loomis
“Where do you go to collect that sort of thing?”
“On the internet. I’d bet a good part of it’s fake or stolen.”
“Any chance she took something from the exhibit?”
“Like I said this afternoon, I was bored, didn’t pay any attention. It’s possible, I suppose, though I’ve never known Livia to steal. She does love anything pertaining to a famous murder, though.”
Not entirely candid. There had been that strip of bloody cloth from the Fall River museum that had been from Lizzie Borden’s father’s shirt when he was hacked to death by an ax in 1892. Celeste had demanded Livia return it and swear never to take something like that again. Surely she hadn’t. . .
She continued, “Anyway, the librarian here identified Livia from a picture on my cell phone I took this morning. Reason I didn’t call you sooner, the lady pointed out which way she went when she left the library and I went to check out the stores. A woman in a drug store a few doors down remembered selling her sun block but after that. . . nothing. It was like the ground swallowed her up or something. I just got back to the hotel.”
Lang was thinking. With his court calendar, the last thing he needed to do was try and squeeze in a trip to the Bahamas. “Stand by. I’ll call you back within an hour.”
“But, what are you going to do?”
Lang hadn’t the foggiest idea. “I’ll tell you when I call back.”
“Lang?” Gurt was standing in the hall behind him. “The meal becomes cold. Besides, Manfred is forbidden to take calls during meals. You are not setting an example.”
Lang was still holding his iPhone. “When Manfred starts supporting this family. I’ll reconsider. In the meantime, I apologize but business puts that food on the table.”
A little disingenuous, perhaps, since he wasn’t actually representing Celeste in what he was about to do. But what the hell? A good relationship with the media was the best advertising he could get.
She started to say something, thought better of it and disappeared back into the dining room.
Lang called up “contacts” on the small screen and scrolled down to a name.
The phone was answered on the second ring. “Hello, Lang. McGrath here.”
Almost all criminal lawyers employ private investigators. Phil McGrath had been Lang’s since the previous one had died in a dubious accident ten years ago. McGrath was a former FBI agent with any number of convenient contacts in both state and federal government.
“Evening Phil. How’d you like a trip to the Bahamas?”
“If you’d suggested it this past winter, I’d been a lot more excited.”
“A friend of a friend seems to have gone missing in Nassau.”
“And is this friend paying or do I look to you for my conch chowder?”
“Nothing like getting the important stuff like the who, what, where out of the way first.”
“I learned from a master about getting paid. I’m talking to him.”
“Touché. The woman you need to contact is Celeste Harper. I’m going to give you her cell number. Tell her I asked you to call. She should be able to pay for your services. Don’t be too much of a gentleman to ask.”
“Have I ever been?”
“If there’s any problem, call me back.”
“Depend on it.”
After reciting the phone number, Lang wished his investigator a nice evening, clicked off and headed back to the dining room. Celeste should be in a position to pay. Now the he had lateralled her off to Phil, his only worry was that dinner had gotten cold.
That tuned out to one Lang Reilly’s biggest mistakes ever.
6.
Columbus Tavern
Paradise Harbour Club
Nassau, Bahamas
The Next Day
To Phillip McGrath, Nassau in general and Paradise Island in particular pushed Las Vegas for first place in over-the-top tourist tacky. Almost all the buildings were pink stucco, the landscaping was contrived at best and people, the tourists, well. . . Not exactly the type one would expect to meet in, say, Monaco or St. Bart’s if you got his drift. And for this the client was paying $325.00 per night off-season rate at the Comfort Suites plus what the card in the room described as an “energy surcharge” and a “gratuity surcharge.”
Now, how do they do that, Phil wondered. A gratuity by definition is something freely given. Politicians weren’t the only ones to twist the English language.
But he wasn’t here to admire the architecture or analyze to local customs. He was here, the only person sitting at the bar, watching one or two tables of swim suit-clad customers finish up a late lunch. There was sand on the wooden floor, gorgeous views of the harbor and the beach and old-fashioned wooden-bladed fans high overhead that kept the place pleasantly cool despite the fact it was totally open on three sides. It was the sort of place where one would not be terribly surprised to see Ernest Hemmingway nursing a gin and tonic, easy on the tonic.
Phil did not feel comfortable in a T and Bermudas. He usually did business in conservative suits; or, occasionally, sport coat and slacks. But neither would fit very well in this bare foot or flip-flops setting. Blending in was the first commandment of the private investigation business. He felt particularly uneasy knowing the Glock 9mm was back home in his bedside table, but that couldn’t be helped. His Georgia license to carry was no good here. Besides, the local dress code would have made it difficult to conceal.
He had ordered a beer, a local Sands. That was almost thirty minutes ago. Despite the paucity of clientele at the moment, the Hawaiian-shirted bar keep was busing himself polishing glasses. Phil told himself he was on island time now where ‘in a minute’ could mean the rest of the day. He also knew that making a white patron wait was a means of both establishing superiority and avenging wrongs real or imagined but certainly distant in history.
The beer and the woman arrived at the same time. The beer in a sweating bottle; the woman in what could best be described as a Muumuu, one of those loose, flowing garments attributed to large Hawaiian women and shared by women of similar size worldwide.
“Mr. McGrath?” she asked.
A good guess since he was the only one seated at the bar and certainly the only recent arrival, judging by the lobster red sunburns at the two tables.
Phil slipped from his bar stool and extended his right hand. “Celeste, I presume? Can I order you a drink?”
She plopped down next to him, ordering something from the surly bar tender that Phil had never heard of. He suspected it came with skewered fruit and a tiny umbrella.
The man behind the bar shook his head. “No, Mom. De mixer, she no wok.” He pointed an accusatory finger at the offending appliance.
It had been working fine when Phil walked into the place. He suspected filling the order required expending some amount of energy and was, therefore, not something included in the man’s job description.
Celeste pointed to Phil’s beer. “I’ll have the same.”
She didn’t have to wait half an hour.
She poured into a frosty glass and took a long sip. “Now, Mr. McGrath. . .”
“Phil, please.”
“OK, Phil, let me tell you. . .”
He put a finger to his lips. “Enjoy your beer. Then we’ll go for a walk. Maybe you can show me the sights.”
Her look of surprise was replaced by a stare around the room as though searching for the perceived eavesdropper. “You don’t think. . .?”
He silenced her with a nod.
Twenty minutes later, they were walking along the beach, shoes in hand.
Celeste looked behind them. “You don’t really think somebody was listening back there?”
Phil chuckled. “No, not really. But I’ve been wrong before and there’s no downside to caution.”
“Is that a quote or did you make that up yourself?”
“Pardon?”
“That ‘no downside to caution’ bit. Is that original?”
He stopped,
looking at her. “It’s something I believe. That’s all.”
This time he was the one looking around. “We’re almost at the end of the beach. Let’s go into town.”
“There’s not all that much there, just mobs of tourists.”
Phil smiled. “Exactly.”
Minutes later, a sputtering, rattling taxi dropped them off in front of the British Colonial Hotel, a pale yellow monument to the Bahamas that had existed prior to independence. Amid the lush land scape in front, a bronze statue of a man in colonial dress whirled to draw a pistol, the tails of his long coat flying.
“Who’s that? Do you know?” Celeste asked.
“Woodes Rogers, first royal governor of the Bahamas. He had two notable achievements: He rid the Bahamas of over two thousand pirates, pardoned all who surrendered and hanged the rest. And he rescued Alexander Selkirk from an otherwise deserted island, the man who gave Defoe the idea for Robinson Crusoe.”
Celeste gave a girlish giggle. “How’d you know that?”
“A very long time ago, my wife and I honeymooned here. It was easily accessible and inexpensive.” By now they were strolling east on Bay street. “That was long before Atlantis was built.”
The narrow and crowded sidewalks of Bay Street made conversation difficult. Any attempt was abandoned within a couple of blocks.
Phil took Celeste’s hand, tugging. “Let’s cross the street!”
The move drew a barrage of horns and a scowl from a picture post card uniformed policeman directing traffic from what looked like an orange crate in the middle of the street. A block further along, Phil repeated the maneuver.
They reached an elliptical parcel of ground dotted with palm trees, Rawson Square on the south side of Bay Street. They walked past a bust of a man the carved legend proclaimed to be ‘Sir Milo Butler, first Governor General of the independent Bahamas.’ Not exactly in the middle of the park, bronze dolphins leapt in a fountain enclosed by marble railing. Across the street, tourists took turns posing in front of a mile post with wooden arrows pointing toward the various islands of the Bahamas with mileage.
Phil leaned against the marble surrounding the fountain and looked around, another tourist taking in the local scenery.
“You think we were followed?” Celeste asked.
Phil turned toward the dolphins. “With this crowd it’s hard to tell. I keep seeing too many of the same faces.”
Particularly a pair of men. Ironed golf shirts, creased shorts, spotless white sneakers. Though they weren’t together, they each occupied a side of the street. One dropped back, the other would move up. Standard surveillance technique. Eyes hidden behind sun glasses, it had been impossible to tell if they had been interested in Celeste and Phil. But they weren’t your average tourists. One had a nose that had been broken more than once. Tall, short cropped hair and a bearing that seemed to scream military.
Phil didn’t see either at the moment. “OK, start at the beginning and tell me everything leading up to your friend’s disappearance. Keep your voice low enough so everyone in the park doesn’t hear.”
She had just begun when he turned his head. “That’s enough for now.”
“But. . .”
He took her by the arm. “Later.”
One of the men had appeared, ear phones plugged into what looked like an iPad. But Phil doubted there was wi-fi here in the park. And he had noted the way the man moved the pad as though searching for a target. Even the slimmest electronic pad these days could house the parabolic dish necessary for listening from a distance. Paranoid or cautious?
7.
Nassau Public Library
Bank Lane & Shirley Street
(Parliament Square)
Fifteen Minutes Later
According to the plaque outside, the pink and white four story building dated to the mid-eighteenth century when it had served as a prison. Now it was a combination library and museum. The coolness of the stone construction washed over Phil as he followed Celeste inside. It was the first place in downtown Nassau Phil had seen that wasn’t crowded.
Except for books. Books were piled on tables, on the floor and every available space. Had a patron wished a place to read, he would have had to sit on a stack of books. The place had a musty smell, the odor of old paper mixed with what? Maybe lime and mortar?
Celeste lead him up a rather elegant oak staircase, Phil wondering as to its origins. As far as he knew, there were not and had never been oaks growing in these islands. Perhaps wood from a wrecked ship?
He forgot the stairs at the top. The room he was viewing had shelves of skulls behind fly-specked glass, along with a few crude tools Phil speculated had come from the indigenous Indians, Lucayan, Caribe, Arawak or whatever. There was no sign of any exhibit featuring a murder.
Celeste echoed his thoughts. “Where. . .? This isn’t like it was when Livia and I. . .” she turned to Phil and misread his expression. “I didn’t make this up!”
“Didn’t say you did. Don’t suppose you saw the librarian, did you?”
They found the woman downstairs, a bespeckled grandmother type doing just what they might expect: Stacking books.
She looked up from the task with a face that seemed to say she was startled to see people in the building. “Hep ya?”
Phil smiled, an effort to assure her they weren’t there to steal one of the aborigine skulls upstairs. “Yesterday you had an exhibit upstairs, photos and material relating to a famous murder. . .”
She shook her head so violently he fully expected her glasses to fly off. “Don’ know whot you talkin’ ‘bout, mon. You hove th’ wrong plese, meybbe.”
Celeste spoke up. “No, I’m quite sure it was here. I came here, remember, looking for the girl whose picture I showed you?”
More violent head shaking. “No, Miss. I never seed you befo’. Now, meybbe you be on your way, ‘fore I call the policeman.”
She brandished a cell phone.
“But. . .?”
Phillip took Celeste’s arm. “C’mon, we’re wasting our time.”
“What’s going on?” she spluttered as they descended the front steps in the afternoon sunshine. “I’m not nuts! I know damn well Livia and I were in there yesterday. And I’m equally clear the so-called museum upstairs had old photographs and stuff that weren’t there today.”
Phil was scouting the passing tourists for the two men who had followed them earlier. “I believe you. I also believe that woman was terrified.”
“Of what?” Celeste wanted to know as she reached the sidewalk. “The two of us aren’t exactly threatening.”
Phil started back toward the British Colonial. “We answer that question, we’ll have a better idea of what happened to Livia.” He saw the expression on her face. “I mean, where she might be.”
“What’s your guess?”
The two men had vanished. But that didn’t mean they weren’t watching from any number of vantages: windows, a ship in the harbor across from the ubiquitous pink and white of public buildings in Parliament Square, anywhere.
“We only know a couple of things. First, we know Livia has disappeared, most likely not of her own will but after showing interest in that exhibit. Second, someone is willing to intimidate that old lady at the library rather than have a seventy year old murder revisited. Third, and I’m speculating here, that somebody has the means to hire a couple of most likely military or ex military types to see what we are up to.”
“You didn’t mention. . .”
“I wasn’t sure until right before we got to the library.”
“But why. . . who?”
“I’m betting, one way or another, we’ll hear from that somebody soon.”
He was right.
8.
Bimini Road Restaurant
Atlantis
Paradise Island
7:40 That Evening.
Phil nodded for the waiter to remove the scant remains of the tamarind spiced pork that had followed an appetizer of aggressivel
y seasoned conch fritters. He was seated with a view of evening creeping over the ocean toward the beach where a Rake and Scrape band was playing Calypso tunes, its instruments consisting of a large carpenter’s saw, an accordion and a Goombay drum.
He had declined Celeste’s offer of dinner at the more upscale Nobu just off the hotel’s casino floor for two reasons: Foremost, he wanted to carefully think over the events of the afternoon, making sure had not missed something that might help solve the riddles surrounding a young American woman’s disappearance. Second, he had a deep suspicion of Japanese cuisine. How could you trust people who considered what was, after all, fish bait a delicacy?
He toyed with the idea of taking his chances with a few spins of the roulette wheel in the hotel’s casino and opted for an early evening. He scratched his name on the credit card receipt, annoyed again at the mandatory “gratuity” for what had been at best indifferent service and headed outside, all but oblivious to the multicolor decor.
He never saw them coming. He was turning a corner defined by a hedge of shoulder high hibiscus when a fist smashed into his stomach and sent him to his knees. The blow was hard enough to spurt bile from his recent dinner into his mouth. Training at the FBI academy years ago made him instinctively roll away from his attacker to get to his feet. The assailant anticipated the move and sent a toe cap crashing against his rib cage.
“You’re smart, mate, you’ll stay right where you are.”
Definitely a British accent.
Phil did as suggested. Level with his eyes were a pair of ankles.
“You’d be even smarter to be on the Delta flight for Atlanta tomorrow.”
Phil took a deep breath and had to bite his lip not to cry out in pain. The bastard had cracked, if not broken, at least one rib. “I was just getting to like it here.”