by Beth Orsoff
“That’s it,” I said to Jane, “we’re leaving.”
“Oh no we’re not. You made me sit here all night waiting to talk to Mona. We’re not going anywhere.”
I stood and fumed until the three calmed down.
“I’m sorry,” Mona said through her giggles. “But we were just talking about Michael and how we couldn’t believe he went along with it.”
“What do you mean went along with it? It was his idea.”
“That’s true,” Jane said. “I was there when they met and it was definitely your brother who hit on Lizzie.”
“Of course, he did” the taller man said. “She’s a beautiful woman, as are you senorita. May I buy you a drink?”
And that’s how the five of us ended up at the Iguana Bar. I had one beer with the group just to be friendly, then switched to club soda. Jane started with club soda and never switched, which didn’t improve her mood any.
The shorter man, the one who had been holding the beer bottle, was Michael’s cousin Ernesto. The taller one, Rodrigo, described himself as a “friend of the family.” Both men lived on neighboring Parrot Caye. When I asked them what they did for a living, they shifted the conversation back to Michael.
Mona beamed as she talked about her brother. He was the first person in her family to go to college, the first one to buy a house, and was helping her and her parents out financially too.
“Yes, Michael’s a saint, blah, blah, blah,” Jane said flapping her hand like a sock puppet. “But what we want to know about is his antiquities business.”
That was a conversation killer.
“What business?” Rodrigo finally said.
I nudged Jane under the table, which I hoped she understood meant let me do the talking, and said, “Michael told me he was an antiquities dealer. He even showed me some of his pieces. They were very nice, jade I think.”
“Oh yes,” Mona said. “He used to buy jewelry from the Mayans and sell it in the states. It helps sustain their culture. They’re very poor.”
She was clearly out of the loop, but likely to be the most cooperative. Ernesto wouldn’t look up from the table, where he was carving his initials with his fingernail, and Rodrigo stared straight at me with his arms folded and his jaw clenched.
“Did you meet Sergeant Ramos?” I asked Mona.
“No,” she said. “Ernesto told me the police haven’t found Michael’s killer yet.”
“Do they have any suspects?” Jane asked.
Mona shook her head and started to tear up. After wiping her nose on her cocktail napkin, she excused herself to use the ladies room.
I waited until she was gone before I asked Ernesto, “Did Sergeant Ramos ever mention finding stolen antiquities in Michaels’ hotel room?”
He looked up at me and then at Rodrigo.
“You shouldn’t believe everything the police tell you,” Rodrigo replied.
This time Jane nudged me under the table, which I assumed meant ‘I told you so’ until she said, “Did you know Lizzie was arrested for attempting to smuggle stolen antiquities out of the country?”
“No,” Rodrigo said, with the same inscrutable expression. “That’s a very dangerous business.”
“I would’ve thought in a town this small it would’ve made the local paper,” Jane continued.
“I don’t read the paper, senorita.”
“I didn’t do it. Someone else put that jade in my suitcase.”
No response.
“Do you have any idea who might’ve done such a thing?”
More silence. I didn’t expect an honest answer, but I thought it would provoke some type of reaction. Instead, Ernesto continued to carve up the table and Rodrigo swigged the rest of his beer.
When Mona returned to the table, Rodrigo suggested they leave, and Mona wished us goodnight. The three of them filed out of the bar, but Rodrigo turned back. “A word of advice, senorita. Be careful who you do business with. Many sellers try to pass off fakes as the real thing.” Then he nodded at us and left.
We sat in silence, sipping our club sodas, until Jane said, “Do you think he was trying to threaten you?”
I didn’t. “I think he might’ve been trying to help me, or at least get rid of me.”
“How do you figure?”
“If the pieces they found in my suitcase are fakes, then there’s no crime.”
“And the police would have to drop the charges and let you leave.”
“Yes, but how do we prove it?”
Chapter 36
IT WAS TOO LATE to call David, so we went back to the Tradewinds and booted up Jane’s lap top. Within minutes of logging onto the internet, Jane had found a newspaper article about an art detective—an anthropologist who worked at a museum in New York whose job was authenticating pre-Columbian art.
“Do you think she would look at my pieces?”
Jane scanned the article. “It says she just came back from Mexico, so why not Belize. Or maybe we could send them to her.”
We resolved to call David first thing in the morning. And I had the best night’s sleep I’d had since I’d arrived on Camus Caye.
“Lizzie, I’m so glad you called,” David said, even though it was eight o’clock on a Monday morning. “It looks like I’ll be able to move your trial up to a week from Friday, assuming I can’t convince Sergeant Ramos to settle before then. He is being a bit of a hard arse about this.”
“I’ve got some good news too.” I told David about my conversation with Mona and Rodrigo and my suspicion that the antiquities Sergeant Ramos found in my suitcase are fakes.
“It’s possible,” he said. “Probably half the antiquities on the market these days are fakes. Although to be honest, even most of the originals aren’t terribly valuable. The smaller pieces usually fetch only a few hundred dollars at auction.”
“Sergeant Ramos told me they were priceless!”
“Well technically that’s true. In archaeology, anything more than a three or four hundred years old is considered priceless. But on the open market, everything has a price.”
“I don’t understand. If they’re not even that valuable, then why won’t he just let me pay a fine and leave?”
“I think you just had the bad luck to run into a policeman who actually cares about his country’s heritage and doesn’t want it sold off piece by piece.”
“Maybe.” Perhaps all of Jane’s conspiracy theories were starting to rub off on me, but I wasn’t ready to let him off that easily.
I gave David all the information I had about Mary Alice Conte, the New York art detective, and he promised to call her as soon as we hung up.
David called me later that afternoon with even more good news. Although the police had refused to ship the pieces out of the country (allegedly their own expert was looking at them), David researched Mary Alice Conte and found out she was currently attending a conference in Mexico City. He was able to track her down at her hotel and convince her to fly to Belize before returning to New York.
I didn’t even want to know what that was costing me. But as Jane reminded me, when your life’s hanging in the balance, it’s no time to be cheap.
By the time David and I connected again I was frantic. I’d already left him five voicemails and had text-messaged him twice.
“You were right,” he said. “The pieces they found in your suitcase were forgeries. Very high quality according to Ms. Conte, and possibly antiques themselves, but definitely not pre-Columbian artifacts.”
I let out the breath I’d been holding since I’d picked up the phone. “So when do I get to go home?”
“That’s a little more complicated.”
“Why? If they’re fakes, then I haven’t committed a crime.”
“Not exactly. Ms. Conte couldn’t pinpoint the exact age of the pieces. Anything more than one-hundred and fifty years old is still considered an antiquity under the law. But that’s not really the issue any more.”
“It’s not?”
&nb
sp; “No.”
I heard the knock at the door, but Jane went to answer it. I looked up from the sofa and caught a glimpse of Sergeant Ramos in the doorway before Jane closed the door behind her and joined him outside.
“David, why is Sergeant Ramos standing outside my hotel room?”
“Lizzie, the only way the police would allow us to have our own expert examine the evidence was if we agreed to one of their investigators being present for the tests.”
“But you just said the tests proved they were fakes.”
“As you know, Belize is not a rich country. Our crime labs don’t have the most modern equipment.”
“So?”
“Ms. Conte had to bring her own equipment with her. She works for one of the largest museums in the world, so naturally she has access to the best resources available.”
“David, will you get to the point!”
“Lizzie, she found trace evidence on two of the pieces, evidence the police missed.”
“What kind of evidence?”
“Blood. Michael’s blood.”
Chapter 37
MICHAEL’S BLOOD? THE WORDS were still pounding in my ears. How did Michael’s blood get on fake antiquities that someone hid in my suitcase? And what did it mean?
My own thoughts blocked out all other sound, but I could still see. Seargant Ramos was standing before me, Officer Juan at his side. I think Jane was yelling at them, her lips were moving and her face was flushed, but I couldn’t make out the words. And I thought I heard David calling my name, but it sounded like it was coming from a long way away.
Then suddenly me ears popped. Jane was screaming that they had no right to do this, Officer Juan was telling her to calm down, and David’s tinny voice was yelling for me to pick up the phone. But the only one I was listening to was Sergeant Ramos.
“You’re under arrest for the murder of Michael Garcia. You’re entitled to speak privately with a lawyer. You do not have to speak unless you wish to do so, but if you do, what you say can be taken down in writing and offered in evidence. Now please stand up.”
When I didn’t, he reached down and grabbed my arm and pulled me to my feet.
“Don’t worry,” Jane said. “I’m calling David right now. He’s going to take care of this.”
I wanted to tell her to just pick up the phone, that he was still on the line, but I couldn’t form the words. Instead, I allowed Sergeant Ramos to steer me outside. He walked me down the beach to the Tradewinds’ private dock where his boat was tied up next to another that I recognized. The passengers were debarking and I heard someone calling my name, but Sergeant Ramos was pushing me forward, and I couldn’t see.
He sat me in the back of his boat and told Officer Juan to guard me, while he cast off and steered us out to sea. I remember shouting to Officer Juan over the sound of the wind and the engine. I asked where we were going and he told me Parrot Caye. I had a flashback of the prisoner in handcuffs outside the magistrate’s office. The one who was going to get convicted because he couldn’t afford a good lawyer. And now that was going to be me.
I was fingerprinted, photographed, searched for weapons, and handcuffed to a bench while Sergeant Ramos and another officer I didn’t recognize fought over where I should be housed. Sergeant Ramos lost. He had to bring me back to the one-room police station on Camus Caye.
It was almost dark when we arrived, but I could make out Jane’s form sitting on the police station’s steps. As soon as she saw us approach, she jumped up. “Are you okay? You’re not hurt, are you?”
“No.” I was still in a daze, but the fog was beginning to lift.
“Do you need anything?”
A new lawyer. A new life. A reset button so I could go back and start this whole week over.
“Are you hungry?” she asked.
I shook my head.
“Well I brought you some fruit anyway,” she said, pulling a banana and two oranges out of her purse.
I couldn’t grab them because my hands were still cuffed behind my back, so Officer Juan took them for me while Sergeant Ramos unlocked the front door.
Sundance started barking even before he opened it.
“We don’t have any food, Sundance,” Sergeant Ramos and Officer Juan called out simultaneously. Even I cracked a smile.
“But we do have food,” Jane said, pointing to the fruit still in Officer Juan’s hand.
“Only to you, Jane.”
Sergeant Ramos heaved himself behind his wooden desk and told Officer Juan to unlock me. I sat down on the ripped vinyl chair, comforted by the familiar vinyl shards digging into the backs of my thighs, while Officer Juan retrieved the bench from the storeroom for Jane.
“Here we are again, Ms. Mancini. I’ve missed another dinner over you, and my wife is a very good cook.”
That I believed.
“I don’t know what I’m going to do with you,” he said and sighed.
I offered my now standard response: “You could let me go.”
Jane snickered, which didn’t endear either of us to Sergeant Ramos.
“You can put her back in the storage room,” Officer Juan said, stating the obvious.
I turned to Jane. “Be careful, you’re sitting on my bed.”
“You’re kidding,” she said.
I wished I were.
After me, the bench, and the desk fan were all back in the storage room, Sergeant Ramos did accede to my one request. He allowed Jane to leave me her Xanax. There’s no way I would’ve survived the night without it.
I woke up achy, but at least I’d slept. After the rooster had quieted down, I stood up and stretched, then stared out the window through the chicken wire at the ocean and beyond.
Officer Juan arrived at eight and unlocked me. After I used the bathroom, I followed him outside uncuffed (I promised not to run away) and we walked Butch and Sundance on the beach. When we arrived back at the station, he fed the dogs while I made coffee and called our breakfast order into the restaurant next door. We were eating at Sergeant Ramos’ desk when David and Jane arrived.
“Well this doesn’t look like cruel and unusual punishment to me,” David said, inhaling the scent of bacon.
“You haven’t seen her bed yet,” Jane said.
“Actually, he has, the last time he was here.” It felt like dejavu. “Are we going back to the hotel so I can shower and change before the next hearing?”
“Right,” David said, “we should talk about that. Officer, will excuse us?”
Juan nodded with a mouthful of fried plantains.
I divided the rest of my breakfast up in my Styrofoam container and pushed the food into Butch and Sundance’s unlocked cell. Sundance moved faster, so he got the larger half, but Butch was bigger and swallowed his portion in one gulp. I knew at least I’d have two friends on the inside.
“I can’t believe you slept in here,” Jane said, following me and David into the storage room.
“You should’ve seen it before I cleaned it,” I replied, rubbing away a spot of dirt on the floor. “So, about my bail?”
David stared down at his briefcase. “I’m really sorry, Lizzie.”
These were not the words I expected to hear. I figured it would be like the last time. I’d spend the night in the storage room, today we’d go to court, Jane would write another check, and I’d be back at the hotel by dinner.
“I know it’s routine in the states,” David continued, “but in Belize, judges don’t normally grant bail in murder cases.”
“Can’t they make an exception?” Jane asked.
“The magistrate has some discretion,” David acknowledged. “But I rang him this morning and he refused. He thinks you’re too great a flight risk.”
“But he’s already got my passport.”
“There’s other ways of leaving the country.”
I looked up at Jane. I could see her wheels turning too.
“But I wouldn’t,” David added, acknowledging the unspoken thought that had passe
d between us. “The U.S. has an extradition treaty with Belize.”
“But not every country does,” Jane said. “And we’re not without means.”
“Stop right there,” David said and held up his hands. “I’m an officer of the court. I cannot advise you to flee the jurisdiction and fight extradition. And if in fact I thought you were serious, I’d be under a legal obligation to notify the court. As it stands, this discussion is irrelevant as Lizzie has not been granted bail.”
We stopped discussing it, but as far as I was concerned, it was still an option.
“You mustn’t lose hope,” David continued. “Their case is completely circumstantial and they have no motive.”
“But they must have some theory,” Jane said.
“Well yes. They think Lizzie and Michael were in business together and had a falling out. The indictment mentioned a fight you had the day before his death.”
“That was a fake fight. We planned the whole thing so Michael could disappear.”
“Well it worked.” He smiled, quite pleased with his joke. Neither Jane nor I were amused.
“Sorry,” he said. “But I need you to stay positive and ingratiate yourself to Sergeant Ramos as much as possible. Officer Martinez already seems quite taken with you, so just keep it up.”
“Why? If they like me, will they let me go?”
“No, the point is to keep you here as long as possible.”
“Excuse me,” Jane said, “But isn’t the point to leave here as soon as possible? Isn’t that why we’re paying you?”
David ignored Jane and spoke directly to me. “You may not like it here, but it’s a lot better than Haittieville prison, which is where murder defendants are normally housed when awaiting trial. The conditions are somewhat better for women than for men, but it’s still not a place you want to be. The longer we can keep you on Camus Caye the better.”
“And how long is that?”
“I don’t know yet. Murder cases aren’t heard by the magistrates, they’re referred to the district Supreme Courts. The next session doesn’t begin until the third Tuesday in June.”