The Terminal Don Diego in Santo Domingo was a large hangar-like structure where boats came and went and you could catch a ferry to San Juan, Puerto Rico. Piet had spent the night in his car, parked across the street, waiting for the ferry to dock. That gave him plenty of time to go over the case. Not that he needed any time. LeBlanc had stayed at the resort. That’s all he knew. That’s what a $25,000 retainer got you: something you could’ve found out by placing a phone call.
Piet missed being on the police force. There was some dignity in scrounging around, following leads on an important case. There was job security too. He made a bit more money working for private clients, but it wasn’t like there was a ton of work. He could go months without a job, and lately he’d been doing a lot of divorce work: following a husband who was supposed to be golfing but was instead sexing up someone other than his spouse. It was easy enough—you just needed a digital camera and a telephoto lens—but intruding on people’s sex lives bothered him. Solving a crime, righting a wrong—that was one thing, but ruining people’s lives because they were seeking pleasure seemed like a good way to get bad karma. Piet wondered if he’d ever been on the other side of the camera in a divorce case. Chances were pretty good he had.
Was this really how he wanted to spend the rest of his life, digging up other people’s dirt? He decided that after this case was closed he’d look for a different job. Maybe work as a house detective for one of the cruise ship lines. The cruise ship idea had some appeal; there was easy access to a rotating stream of women looking for a good time.
Piet watched as cars drove off the ferry and into traffic. People were coming out of the terminal, meeting friends, hailing cabs, and getting on with their day. Piet finished his coffee and crumpled the cup, tossing it on the floor. One thing you had to say about Dominican coffee, it was better than what he drank on Curaçao.
The ferry was in dock for a couple of hours before it would turn around and head back to Puerto Rico. Piet managed to talk his way on board and have a quick conversation with the captain, surreptitiously slipping him an American hundred-dollar bill and getting permission to talk to the crew about an American man who’d gone missing.
Piet made the rounds, flashing a picture, trying to find crew members, struggling to communicate in his limited Spanish, but no one remembered seeing LeBlanc. Piet was beginning to think that LeBlanc hadn’t taken the ferry after all, until a waitress in the snack bar remembered him.
She was an attractive young Dominican, with soft brown skin, large dark eyes, and an ass that woke Piet up. If he’d had time, if they were on a dance floor, he might be interested in more than her recollections about LeBlanc.
“What do you remember about him?”
She fluttered her eyelids and said, “He was guapo.” And then she remembered, “And a good tipper.”
“Do you remember what he ate?”
She smiled. “A hamburguesa con queso.”
Piet made a point of writing that down in his notebook. Not that it mattered, but he wanted her to feel she was being helpful. He had all the information he needed. LeBlanc had taken the ferry to Puerto Rico, which meant Piet was headed to San Juan. Piet thanked her and slipped her some money, then went off to make a phone call.
But when Piet told his client that he was following LeBlanc’s trail to Puerto Rico, he was told to abandon that plan and get to the Caymans as soon as possible.
A light drizzle was falling, not really rain, but enough that you might want an umbrella if you were going to be out in it for long. Seo-yun declined the umbrella. She let the rain fall on her face. Droplets dotted her glasses and refracted the light. Neal stood under an umbrella emblazoned with the Ritz-Carlton logo and watched her get wet.
“You want to get under here?”
She shook her head. “It feels good.” Nothing in her day-to-day existence felt as good as this warm tropical precipitation; her job, her apartment, her clothes, her stupid fiancé—none of it compared to this sensation. Was it all those dry years of being in classrooms and offices, working toward whatever goal she’d been convinced she needed to achieve? Well, she’d achieved it all and it didn’t feel nearly as good as this. Simple, sensual pleasure. That’s what was missing. It made her wonder if something was wrong with her, like some kind of neurological problem or vitamin deficiency that hadn’t, until this moment, allowed her to take pleasure in simple things. What if she’d been dehydrated for decades? She made a vow to drink lots of water and take a dip in the hotel pool. She was going to be a sponge and absorb as much tropical moisture as she could.
Atlantic Starr began crooning from her cell phone. She sent the call to voice mail. Whatever her fiancé needed, well, he’d just have to wait.
“We should get inside.”
She closed her eyes and felt the drizzle splatter her face.
“C’mon.” Neal gently took her arm and led her through the glass door into the air-conditioned lobby of the First-Caribbean International Bank. Seo-yun shivered in the cold air. They’d called ahead and made an appointment with one of the private banking managers.
She had been expecting to be taken into an office, offered a cup of tea or a glass of water, and reassured by the manager that he would help in any way he could. But that’s not what happened. Instead a young woman appeared and told them that the manager handling the account hadn’t showed up for work. She didn’t know where he was. She hadn’t been involved in managing the account and there wasn’t much she could tell them; there was no name on it, just an account number and they already knew that. She reminded them that the bank was a signatory to the US Patriot Act and all suspicious transactions would have been reported. She handed them the account manager’s business card. That way they could call him directly.
“He should be in tomorrow,” she concluded.
Seo-yun felt a shiver run through her body, and her skin dimpled with goose bumps.
Neal looked at the card and turned to Seo-yun: “Let’s go find Leighton Stewart.” Neal hooked his arm in hers and led her out of the building and back into the rain. “I’m sure they’ll have a phone book at the library.”
He popped the umbrella open as they crossed a little plaza called Heroes Square, although who the heroes were was unclear, and headed into the George Town library.
Seo-yun had overheard some tourists talking about the library, how it had some kind of historical importance on the island, but from the outside, it just looked like a municipal building that could’ve been in Fort Lee or Syracuse. But as they entered she noticed that the library was divided into two buildings. On one side was a large and well-appointed modern building that housed the actual working library, and on the other was a funky older building.
Seo-yun let Neal do the detective work. Not that it was going to require a skill any more refined than looking up Leighton Stewart’s address and phone number in the phone book. But he was the investigator, so while he did that, Seo-yun walked into the old part of the library to see what was so special. The room itself was nothing unusual: a white room with windows and some empty shelves along the walls. There were no books, no tables, no card catalog. But when she looked up, she understood. The roof had been built by a shipbuilder who, perhaps incapable of constructing a standard roof, made a hull of a ship instead, so it looked as if an old Spanish galleon had fallen upside down on top of the room. It was insane. It was magic.
Seo-yun stood there and admired the woodwork. Here was proof that you could think differently, flip the script, and play to your strengths. Turn everything upside down. It was such a simple idea, and it was brilliant. As she looked at the roof she realized that she could not think of a single reason not to turn her world on its head. She wanted to live a life where tropical moisture had priority over making a lot of money.
Neal walked up alongside her. “Got it.” He stopped and looked up at the ceiling. “Upside-down boat,” he said.
She nodded. “He played to his strengths.”
Her cell phone be
gan to croon. Her fiancé was texting. He needed to know if she really wanted a soju cocktail at the reception. Everyone was waiting for her answer.
Piet sat in the lobby of the Ritz-Carlton Grand Cayman drinking a cup of coffee. He watched tourists walk by: pale and friendly, probably Canadian. A woman dressed in expensive resort wear complained to the concierge about the weather. She had that confident, entitled, thoroughly obnoxious attitude that people from the industrialized world liked to project on people in the Caribbean. The concierge assured her the rain would lift. Piet heard her say, “My husband came here to play golf,” which made Piet chuckle. You could golf in the rain. The hotel would probably provide someone to hold an umbrella over her husband while he played. It was that kind of place.
Piet had seen the inside of some swanky hotels, but he had never checked in at one under his own name. He could get used to the luxury, he could see that, and maybe if this case lasted long enough he could pay for it himself. He was charging his client quadruple his usual rate because he was off Curaçao, on unfamiliar territory, and, well, why not charge them as much as he could? They were a big Wall Street firm; they practically minted money.
He had gotten a text from Neal Nathanson, the firm’s representative, saying they were visiting the local bank and they should meet him at the hotel for lunch to figure out a plan, but that was two hours ago. Piet thought he should have heard from them by now. That, and he was getting hungry.
“Piet Room.”
Piet turned and saw an affable-looking man standing next to him.
“Detective Grover.” Piet stood and the two men shook hands. Piet pointed to a seat. “Thanks for coming on short notice. I don’t have a lot of time.”
The detective chuckled. “When Piet Room calls, I move mountains.”
Piet couldn’t help but notice that Grover had aged. His close-cropped hair was sparked with gray, and he was heavier, his paunchy gut protruding above his belt like a scoop of ice cream about to fall off the cone.
Grover settled into the chair and looked around. “You can’t be staying here on your own dime.”
Piet smiled. “Client is picking up the tab. You want a coffee?”
Grover nodded. “Have them throw a little Irish in it.”
Piet signaled to the waiter.
“So why are you here? Another husband think his wife is cheating?”
Piet laughed. “I’m sure she is, but that’s not why I’m here.” He leaned forward. “It’s a missing person case.”
“You suspect something foul?”
Piet shrugged. “They won’t tell me much. Good news is they’re sparing no expense.”
“Apparently.”
“And they don’t want the police involved.”
“Because if we find the guy first, he might tell us something they don’t want us to know.”
“It’s a Wall Street thing.”
The coffee arrived and Grover licked the whipped cream off the top before taking a sip. “And so you called up your old pal because …”
“Just thinking I might need some backup. I don’t know what I’m getting into.”
“You know the laws here. I don’t carry. Nobody carries. We don’t do firearms here, somebody could get hurt.”
“What about nonlethal?”
“I might be able to dig up an old Taser.” Grover chuckled. “But then you have to come for dinner. You know Mary makes a great grouper escabeche.”
Piet nodded at Grover’s gut. “I can see.”
The Harbor House Marina was the largest boat dealer on Grand Cayman, and although Bryan would have liked to buy a boat from a private citizen in a discreet cash deal, there just weren’t as many available as he thought there would be, and none that served his purpose. But he wasn’t worried. If he had to buy a panga boat and motor all the way to the Bahamas to buy a proper sailboat, he would.
Bryan pulled his rental car into the lot and parked next to a large industrial-looking building with a clump of palm trees plopped in front. He’d used the phone in the rental house to call ahead and had spoken to a chirpy saleswoman. She said they might have what he was looking for, and so here he was, ready to shop, half a million dollars in cash burning a hole in the trunk of his car.
The salesperson’s name was Teresa, and she was one of those sun-kissed and athletic women who were into outdoorsy activities like rock climbing and parasailing. “This,” she said, “could be your lucky day.”
Bryan followed her out toward the marina. He tried to keep his eyes from wandering over her body, which was attractively packaged in white jeans and a pink polo shirt. Sex was a distraction and now was not the time. He had to stay focused. Once he was off the island he could think about all those complicated things that normal people take Xanax to avoid thinking about.
They walked past a large powerboat hanging in the air, attached to a gigantic contraption, a skeletal cube on wheels, designed to lift boats in and out of the water. He stopped and stared.
“You sure you want a sailboat?”
He turned to Teresa and smiled. “What can I say? I’m a romantic. I like the wind.”
She led him to the end of the marina, past several boats: mostly powerboats used for day fishing and a few smaller sailboats. There, gleaming in the water, was an almost new Beneteau Oceanis 38.1. Bryan had seen pictures of the Oceanis line of sailboats. They had a sleek, ultramodern design that sailors either loved or hated. Bryan hadn’t been a fan, but now, seeing it in person, he was impressed. It was beautiful.
Teresa climbed aboard. “A couple from Miami bought it and had it shipped here, then he caught her in bed with the nanny.”
“So they’re getting divorced.”
She nodded and Bryan could detect a glint in her eye.
“You’re not telling me the whole story.”
“Seems the husband wasn’t mad. Took off his clothes and got in bed with them both, and the wife decided that was too much.”
“Boundaries are important.”
She held out a hand to help Bryan get on the boat. He didn’t need her assistance, but he wanted to touch her, so he let her help him.
“It’s in the cruiser configuration. Thirty-eight-footer. Two cabins. Head. Separate shower. It’s basically outfitted for long-term use. You could live full-time on it, if you wanted.”
“How’s it for storage?”
She shrugged. “Typical. But it’s got two cabins and you could provision the smaller one for long hauls.”
Bryan had hoped for a forty-two-footer or larger, but this one was ready to go and he was used to sailing boats about this size. He could get off the island in a day or two.
Teresa crossed her arms and looked at him. “What’re you thinking?”
“I was hoping for something bigger.”
“Story of my life.”
He raised an eyebrow. Was she flirting?
She coughed. “Sorry. Joke.”
He smiled. “How much do they want for it?”
“Do you want to take it out for a test run?”
“She looks pretty solid.”
“It’s a great boat.” They looked at each other for a moment and then she said, “Two twenty-five.”
Bryan tried to appear thoughtful. He ran his fingers through his hair as if he was struggling to come to a decision. “How soon could you get her seaworthy for me? Turn one of the cabins into storage? Make sure all the ropes are good?”
“Might take a couple of days, but we’ll make it happen.”
“I’d like to keep this purchase discreet.”
“Naturally.”
He figured she might be used to selling boats to drug smugglers and rich people trying to invest in tax dodge schemes. “Do you take cash?”
Teresa brightened. “Mr. Ebanks, we’ll take payment in any form you like.”
Bryan shook her hand. “Call me Cuffy.”
The hostess led Neal and Seo-yun across the patio toward a table where Piet sat eating a cheeseburger.
Seo-yun turned to Neal and said, “This is the muscle?”
Neal shrugged. “I’ve never worked with him before, but he comes highly recommended.”
Piet wiped his hand on his napkin and extended it. “You must be Mr. Nathanson.”
Neal shook his hand. “Call me Neal. This is my colleague Seo-yun Kim.”
Piet took Seo-yun’s hand and their eyes locked. It was only for a second, but Neal noticed a brief spark of something pass between them. Neal remembered when he met Bart and they’d shared a look like that from across a crowded room. A few months later Neal was buying the most expensive couch he’d ever seen.
Seo-yun asked Piet, “What are you eating?”
“They call it a Caribbean burger but it’s pretty much a normal burger.”
“What makes it Caribbean?”
“Pepper jelly.” Piet waved his hand at the empty chairs. “Sit. You should eat something. It’s going to be a long day.”
Seo-yun sat next to Piet and said, “Sure, I’ll try a Caribbean burger.” And then she took a french fry off his plate, dipped it in what looked like mayonnaise, and popped it into her mouth. Neal saw Piet smile, watching her lips as she chewed before taking a bite out of his Caribbean burger and sending pepper jelly spurting out.
The waiter came over and offered a menu, but Neal just said, “I guess we’ll all have a Caribbean burger.”
Piet wiped his lips. “You won’t be sorry.”
Neal did feel a bit of remorse about eating the Caribbean burger. Pretty much every time the car hit a bump he got a repeater burp of beef grease and sweet hot pepper in the back of his throat. He really wished he’d gone up to his room and brushed his teeth before they left, but maybe he could use the strange belchy feeling to his advantage, get in the bank manager’s face, get to the bottom of this.
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