“He’ll have a new identity. So even if his body washes up, he’s nobody anyone knows.”
“Why do we have to kill him? Why not just take the money?”
“Because he’ll find us and try to get the money back.” Leighton sipped his beer. “He knows who I am. He’s a criminal. He could kill us.”
“You sure the money is there.”
“I put it there.”
“How much?”
“About fifteen million.”
“And I get half?”
Leighton nodded.
Pearson wiped the sweat off his face. “We got no other choice?”
Leighton shrugged. “I don’t know how else to do it.”
“I’m not a murderer.”
“Me neither.”
The two cousins studied each other. Finally Pearson said, “It could look like an accident. He could drown.”
Leighton shook his head. “We jump him in the condo. That’s the easiest. If we have to put him on a boat, someone could see.”
“Might be worth the risk.”
Leighton brightened. “He could hang himself.”
By the time they opened their third beer, they’d decided that a kind of assisted suicide was preferable to beating his brains in with a pipe. It would be hard to live with something like that.
Of course, when they got to the apartment he was gone. The money was gone. Their dreams of wealth snuffed out.
And then Leighton disappeared.
It had been three days now and there was no sign of him. Leighton wasn’t the kind of guy to just up and leave his cushy job at the bank, but he hadn’t come home or answered his phone or shown up for work—trouble done blow shell—and now Pearson was on his own. Either Leighton got the money and bounced off-island, cutting him out of the deal, or the guy really was a criminal and had done something to Leighton. Unless there was someone else involved, like this American guy and his friends.
He’d followed the American because he looked like he was in charge. In charge of what, Pearson didn’t know, because none of them looked like the police; no way they were FBI; maybe they were CIA. If movies were any indication, the CIA was filled with weirdos.
Pearson didn’t know if the American was looking for the guy or Leighton or the money, but he was going to get that money if it killed him. And then he was going to France.
What artist doesn’t dream of France? With the loot he could set himself up in the City of Light—rent a studio in some funky suburb like Ivry-sur-Seine—and do the kind of painting that he’d always wanted to do. He could quit churning out paintings of Caribbean women with baskets of fruit on their head. He could stop slapping bright island color on crude landscapes of simple huts and flatly rendered palm trees. That work was crap. It was a waste of his talent. Even his boss at the gallery said so. His dream was to follow in the footsteps of painters like Eric Fischl, R. B. Kitaj, and Francesco Clemente. He was a serious artist, and the islands were holding him back.
Pearson Kilpatrick could draw. He could paint. Not only could he pronounce chiaroscuro correctly, he could do it too.
Pearson never thought he’d be involved in murder, but if art was about sacrifice, wasn’t it better to sacrifice someone else?
He watched the American put his mobile in his pocket and walk back to his car.
Neal sat at the table eating a Caribbean Caesar salad that reminded him of a Cajun Caesar salad he’d had once in New Orleans and a chili ranch Caesar salad he’d had in Dallas and a Cabo Wabo Caesar supreme he’d had in Mexico. Throw some spicy grilled shrimp on lettuce, make up a name. It wasn’t the most exciting thing on the menu, but maybe now that they were close to LeBlanc, he didn’t have a big appetite for cheeseburgers with pepper jelly.
Neal saw Seo-yun walk into the lobby of the Ritz-Carlton. Piet was still outside; he seemed to be sending a text. Seo-yun smiled when she saw Neal and said, “Hey there.” She pulled out a chair and joined him.
Neal leaned forward and spoke softly. “Can we talk?”
“Of course. What?” Neal hesitated. Seo-yun cocked her head. “Why are you being so weird?”
“It’s none of my business but, you know, you’re not supposed to fraternize with the subcontractors.”
“Fraternize?”
Neal looked down at his salad. “You know what it means.”
“You mean fucking him on the street?”
Neal’s mouth dropped open. “You didn’t.”
Seo-yun laughed at him. “Is this an HR problem? Are you going to write me up?”
“Of course not.”
“So what are you worried about?”
Neal softened. “I’m sorry. He makes me feel tense.”
She smiled. “Maybe you’re just jealous.”
Something about the way she said it hit home, reminding Neal that he was lonely, that he wanted to desire and be desired as much as anyone. “Maybe I am.”
“We can have a three-way later. Right now I’m famished.”
Neal couldn’t help it; he blushed. “Now that’s an HR nightmare.”
Seo-yun scanned the menu. “These manhunts really work up an appetite.” She looked up at Neal. “That didn’t come out exactly right.”
Piet entered the restaurant and sat down at the table. When the waiter brought him a menu, he declined it with a shake of his head.
“You’re not eating?” Neal asked, and took another bite of his salad.
“I’m having dinner with a friend.”
Seo-yun looked at Piet. He shrugged. “Grover? You met him at the station this afternoon.”
“You don’t have to explain. I’m not the jealous type.” She turned to Neal. “If the money’s on that boat, we’ve got a lot of work to do.”
Piet’s eyebrow shot up. “Money? I thought we were looking for a person.”
Neal swallowed, washing the shrimp down with some iced tea, and couldn’t hide the irritation in his voice when he said, “We are.”
Piet stared at Neal, then at Seo-yun. “It helps me if I know what I’m investigating.”
“We’re looking for a person who has some money,” Seo-yun explained.
“But we’re concentrating on finding the person,” Neal clarified. “He may not have any money. He may have hidden it somewhere.”
Piet glared at them. “Fine. You don’t want to tell me everything, that’s your deal. But that’s why you think he’s bought a boat. The big thing he has to move is money.”
Seo-yun raised her shoulders. “Maybe.”
“Let’s watch the boat and see if it’s him,” Neal said.
“Or I could get a couple of local police, go to the boat, and take him into custody.”
“We’re not getting the police involved.”
Piet shrugged. “I don’t know if you can stop it. He stuck a fucking conch through that guy’s skull.”
Neal blinked. “A conch?”
“Like a big pointy seashell.”
“I know what a conch is. I just—”
“You don’t want to see the picture,” Seo-yun interrupted.
Neal felt the blood drain from his face.
“Fuck.”
“I told you I smelled something,” Piet said. “Once you’ve smelled that … you don’t forget it.”
Seo-yun turned to the waiter and ordered the mahimahi special. Neal pushed his salad away. “Well, it doesn’t help that someone was murdered, but that’s not why we’re here. It’s not our mission.” He put his napkin on the table. “I still think we just stake it out, see if it’s him.”
Piet folded his arms across his chest. “Is that your experience talking? You ever deal with a killer?”
Neal sighed. “I’m open to ideas.”
“I can put the cops off for a day. And I doubt he’ll set sail in the dark, so first thing tomorrow, we’ll try it your way.”
With that Piet gave Seo-yun a wink, pushed his chair back, and walked off.
Pearson had been drawing on a cocktail napkin, dood
ling an energized version of the bottles on the shelf, when he heard the bartender say, “You can’t afford a drink here, son.”
The bartender, an older Caymanian with short graying hair and a smartly trimmed mustache, reminded him of his grandfather.
“Is that so?”
“That’s why I’m giving you one.” The bartender placed a napkin and then a whiskey neat in front of Pearson.
“Cheers, man.”
Pearson took a sip and felt the alcohol burn down his throat. It felt good. He turned and looked at the three people eating at a table nearby: the American, the Asian woman, and the midget. The bartender leaned close to Pearson.
“You want to watch out for that short fella.”
“Who is he?”
“Some kind of policeman.”
“The other two?”
“Work for a bank in New York.”
As if on cue, the little person stood up and Pearson heard him tell his colleagues he’d see them later. Pearson watched him walk off. He had a swagger about him, that’s for sure. He might be short, but like Toulouse-Lautrec, Pearson could tell he was someone you didn’t wanted to fuck with.
“Why you interested?”
Pearson looked at the bartender. “Who says I am?”
The bartender shook his head. “And I gave you a free drink.”
Pearson laughed. He watched the bartender polish a glass. He was surprisingly graceful for an old man, the way he moved, how he deftly worked the cloth around the shape. And he was meticulous. Probably hadn’t missed a water spot or lipstick smudge in years. He was, like Pearson, an artist. Pearson realized he didn’t need to confide in the bartender, didn’t need to tell him anything, but there was something about this guy that inspired confidence.
“A friend of mine’s gone missing. I think they have something to do with it. Or they know who did it.”
“Local boy?”
Pearson nodded and knocked back the rest of the whiskey.
The bartender looked over at the table. “I do not like when people come to our island and get up to nefarious ends.” He wrote down Pearson’s mobile number and promised to call if he heard anything.
Piet burped. It was a spontaneous escape of gas and he tried to cover it by putting his hand over his mouth. Grover burst out laughing and pointed to his wife: “I told her, ‘He’s from Curaçao. Don’t put too many peppers on the grouper.’”
“I like peppers.”
“Your mouth might like ’em, but your belly’s got other ideas.”
Piet chuckled and looked at Grover’s wife. She had aged well, putting on only a few pounds, but was still a lovely woman with a great laugh. “Don’t listen to him. That was delicious.”
Mary picked the plates off the table and looked at her husband. “Don’t worry. I haven’t listened to him since he got down on his knee and proposed.”
“Some people only hear what they want to hear.”
And then she laughed and went into the kitchen. Couples, Piet knew, often had a secret language and their own private jokes. That kind of intimacy, a closeness that was seemingly unrelated to sex, was a mystery to him; he’d never had that experience with anyone. Who would want to marry a self-employed philanderer, a man who sometimes had anger management issues? For the first time in a long while, he felt a pang of self-pity.
“Let me fetch a couple more beers.” Grover got up from the table and followed his wife into the kitchen.
Piet could hear them kissing and giggling.
Grover came back with two beers in one hand. He settled in his chair, letting gravity arrange his girth. “Now then. You want to tell me what happened in Punta Cana?”
“What do you mean?”
“A provisional warrant with your name on it came across my desk this evening.”
Piet sipped his beer. “Oh, that.”
“You fucked some guy up? An American? Why? You know how those people are.”
Piet belched softly. “Do I need a lawyer?”
“Not yet. I’m going to do you a solid, and in return, I’m going to expect something from you.”
Piet looked at the table. “I’m listening.”
“Let’s go back to the station. You tell me everything that’s going on with this case of yours, and I’ll see that the warrant finds its way to the shredder.”
“And if I don’t?”
Grover laughed a big, deep belly laugh. “You’re funny. That’s why I like you.”
Bryan LeBlanc lugged the last duffel bag onto his boat. He was sweating, trying to catch his breath, but there they were: after buying the boat and putting some money in the bank, he now had ten duffel bags stacked neatly on the deck. He wiped the sweat off his face. He used to move tens of millions of dollars with just the click of a button, sending digital information flying from one server to the next in a nanosecond. This analog way of doing things was exhausting. Of course his father would’ve called it honest work. The irony was not lost on him.
He unlocked the hatch to the interior and walked down the companionway into the cabin. He flicked on a light and looked around. The inside was immaculate, freshly cleaned and smelling like soap. It was beautiful. Bryan smiled. He could live here. This nomadic life was going to be okay.
He noticed a bottle of wine on the table. A closer look revealed a card from Teresa thanking him for his business and wishing him bon voyage. Bryan was happy to see that she’d also written her personal number down in case he needed anything. A glass of wine sounded great, but first he had to stow the money. He’d had a locksmith put in a dead bolt for the aft cabin and he opened it. The bed had been removed, and now the cabin was simply a large storage space. A bank vault.
It didn’t take long to stack the duffel bags in the room. He closed the door, locked it, and turned to the bottle of wine. He poured himself a celebratory drink. Tomorrow he would stock up on supplies, return the rental car, and, if the weather was good, set sail. He hadn’t even thought about where he might go. He was just going.
Bryan had bought an iPod at the Apple store on the island and spent an afternoon loading it with music. He hooked it up to the built-in sound system and put on a genius mix of songs he’d downloaded. The playlist was called “Yacht Rock”—classic soft rock from Michael McDonald, Steely Dan, Kenny Loggins, and Seals & Crofts, plus some newer bands like Tennis, Mac DeMarco, and Toro y Moi. He figured if he was going to live like a yachtsman, he might as well go all in.
He carried his wine up the companionway onto the deck. The soft croon of Hall and Oates drifted out of the speakers. It was a pleasant tropical night. The air was warm, the sky clear and filled with stars. His boat looked beautiful, glamorous in the moonlight. He sat down at the helm seat, one hand gripping the wheel, the other holding his glass. Soft waves slopped against the hull. It would have been entirely pleasant if not for the horrible grating claxon of mating seagulls piercing the air. But Bryan didn’t mind; he raised his glass and toasted the avian lovers. We should all shout like that when we’re making love.
Seo-yun’s phone rang again. “Always.” Again. She let out a groan and sent the call to voice mail. Neal took a sip of his mojito and glanced at her. “Can I ask you a personal question?”
She looked across the patio at the swimming pool. It was quiet now; the sun had set and only a few people were in the water. She turned back to Neal. “Sure.”
“Why are you getting married?”
Although she had been asking herself the same question and pondering her motives ever since that afternoon romp with the young applicant, she hadn’t talked to anyone about it, had never given voice to her fears. She took a sip of her cocktail and said, “I’m just buttoning the buttons.”
Neal choked on his drink. “I’m sorry?”
“It’s something my parents told me. If you get the first button in the right hole, the rest will line up and the shirt will fit.” She observed his reaction and continued. “Going to the right school, getting a good job—those are the first butto
ns. Marriage is just another one in the line.”
Neal let out a sigh. “How romantic.”
That made Seo-yun smile. If she were writing a summary of this trip for HR, if she wanted to be critical of her colleague, she would note that his romanticism was a flaw. He wasn’t fully focused on the case, always moping around bleating about his breakup. If anyone needed to get laid—and Seo-yun couldn’t remember how many times her friends had told her that, as if sex was the ultimate panacea, the all-time leading cure for whatever ails—it was Neal. Of course now that she was actually getting some, she could see what her friends were talking about; she had needed to get laid. Maybe a little sex would snap Neal out of his depression. But she didn’t tell him that.
“The problem is I don’t like the shirt as much as I thought I would.”
“Wrong fit?”
“Wrong everything.” Seo-yun’s face was completely serious when she asked, “Would you care what color the tablecloths are?”
He laughed. “Yes. Very much so.”
Seo-yun was pleased that she could make him laugh. It made her laugh too. She reached her cocktail out toward him and they chimed the glasses together. It was sweet, an unspoken acknowledgment of their newfound friendship.
Two patrolmen from RCIPS strolled up to them. Their white shirts with dark epaulets looked out of place in the resort, and at first Seo-yun thought they might work for one of the airlines, but the bright red stripes down the sides of their pants were the first clue that these were not commercial pilots. One of the officers said, “Neal Nathanson? Seo-yun Kim?”
Seo-yun was annoyed to hear her name mispronounced yet again. Was it really that difficult?
Neal nodded to the officers. “Yes?”
“You need to come with us.”
Seo-yun looked up at the policemen. “Why? What’s happened?”
“You’re under arrest.”
Bryan was sitting in the cockpit of his boat, pouring his second glass of wine, when he heard a voice say, “I love that song.”
He stood up and saw Teresa standing on the pier. “This one?”
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