Piet wasn’t gone long. She watched him come out of the police station and get into the driver’s seat.
“Where’s Neal?”
“They released him an hour ago.”
Piet seemed concerned, so she tried to reassure him. “I’m sure he’s fine.” Seo-yun reached for her phone. “I’ll call him.”
“I’m getting away from here.”
Piet put the car in gear and drove slowly away from the station. Seo-yun looked at her phone. “Voice mail.”
“This doesn’t feel right.”
“He could’ve taken a cab.”
Piet shook his head. “I really hope they didn’t decide to take some initiative.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means that if the police figure out he’s after someone with a bunch of money, then they might do whatever they need to do to find the guy with the money.”
“You think they’d hurt him?”
“I’m just saying that we should get the hell out of here.”
The drove in silence for a moment as Seo-yun thought about what Piet was saying. Were they in danger? Would the police torture Neal and steal the money? Or was Piet trying to get them off the island because he wanted the money for himself? And how could anyone do anything until LeBlanc was found? What if LeBlanc was dead?
“Why would they do that?”
Piet glanced at her. “For the same reason your guy stole the money in the first place.”
Seo-yun didn’t know why LeBlanc stole the money. She thought she knew him, thought they were colleagues, but then this happened and now she wondered if she ever really knew him. She realized she could say the same thing about herself. She thought she knew who she was and what she wanted, she thought she had her life all figured out, and then she surprised herself. How did that happen? Were people inherently insane?
Piet touched her arm. “You okay?”
She wasn’t okay. She didn’t know how to feel, exactly. It was all confusing, and confusion was something she usually cut through with logic. She muttered, “Money doesn’t buy happiness.”
Piet patted her hand. “People without money don’t know that.”
His trunk full of groceries—bags of gourmet cheeses, instant ramen, cans of tuna, tomato sauce, pasta, garbanzo beans, and six bottles of pinot grigio—Bryan LeBlanc drove into the marina parking lot and pulled to a stop. He was still feeling good, buoyant even. The ship was ready; the cash was stowed and secure. He’d swung by the bank this morning and deposited another half million dollars in Cuffy’s bank account just in case anything went haywire. All he needed to do was stock the galley with provisions—the extra-virgin olive oil and balsamic vinegar, the sea salt and pepper jelly—and then he could cast off and begin his new life as a wandering person of leisure or whatever it was he was about to become.
What was he going to do? Float around the world eating cheese and reading books? Not that it was such a bad thing to do. Maybe he could do some charity work. Invest in some local schemes. Help a fisherman buy a new net or pay for a young woman to go to college in the US. That could be worthwhile. Make him feel less like a parasite without totally depleting his cash. He’d have to figure out how to disburse the funds, but Cuffy Ebanks’s floating microloan savings and trust sounded like a cool idea. Or maybe he’d write an anonymous memoir: a how-to for ripping off Wall Street.
A marina workman came out with a cart to help haul the supplies to his boat. As they were unloading the trunk, Teresa walked out of the office.
“Got time for a coffee?”
Bryan smiled. “The weather looks good for sailing. I think I should take advantage.”
Teresa ran her fingers through her hair and said, “I was hoping I could lure you to my house for dinner before you left.”
Their eyes locked, and for a brief moment, Bryan was tempted to say yes, but then the feeling of being so close to accomplishing everything made him look away.
“I know, it’s a bit sudden.” A wry smile played on her lips.
Bryan shook his head. “It’s not that. It’s just …”
“The FBI are closing in.”
He laughed and then immediately regretted it, because it sounded like a fake laugh, a nervous laugh. “Can I take a rain check?”
“Only if you’ll use it.”
Bryan smiled. “It is with the best intentions that I take your rain check.”
Teresa smiled back. “I’m kind of surprised our paths haven’t crossed before. We’re about the same age. It’s a small island.”
She was right, of course she was. Fortunately, he’d already given this line of questioning some thought. “I grew up in the States.”
“And you never came for a visit? You must have some relatives here.”
Bryan nodded. “My parents had some falling-out with their families. I think they didn’t approve of their marriage. They never talked about it.”
“Perhaps an unexpected pregnancy was the cause.”
Bryan laughed. “Yep. It’s all my fault.” He looked around. “Although I do wish I had grown up here.”
“Well, you’re here now.”
In that moment he calculated the risks versus the rewards of staying, even if only for dinner, and quickly realized that it would be impossible for him to be with her. He had murdered someone on this island; he couldn’t be coming back for visits, hanging around, or getting involved in a romance. Sooner or later someone—the police or Leighton’s angry friend—was going to figure it out, and then he’d be fucked.
“It was really great to meet you.”
Teresa nodded. “Pleasure doing business, Mr. Ebanks.”
Neal was impressed. Sure, there were some cheesy-looking paintings of sea turtles, done in the kind of fluorescent pastels you’d find in a Fort Lauderdale hotel room, but there were other works that wouldn’t look out of place at a gallery in Chelsea. They were in some kind of ramshackle boat barn turned into a studio: tubes of paint lined up on a rough wood table, brushes resting in a rusted yellow Café Bustelo can, and a few blank canvases leaning against the walls. Paintings were everywhere, in stacks on a table, propped on chairs, hanging from nails on the wall; a half-finished painting of a pod of dolphins breaching waves at sunset stood on an easel in the center of the room.
“These are really good.” Neal smiled. “But shouldn’t we get going? Aren’t we meeting the others at the marina?”
“I just need to pick something up.”
Pearson shot him a look. There was some tough-guy posturing behind it. Neal felt his face flush. The artist was lean and strong and mysterious. There was something dangerous about him: the way he carried himself, the muscular curve of his ass as he bent over a table. Neal could imagine what happened next: a hot and heavy session in the studio of a handsome artist on a tropical island. That sounded like one of Joe Gage’s films; instead of L.A. Tool & Die it could be Cayman Cock & Canvas.
Neal felt his penis begin to stir. He adjusted his posture—he’d been standing in what he thought might be a provocative pose, leaning against a wall, hips jutting forward, but now he felt slightly embarrassed.
“Time is of the essence.” Neal couldn’t believe he’d just coughed up such a cliché, but it seemed to work. Pearson nodded and picked up an object from underneath a table. Neal saw that he was holding a wooden-handled thing with a sharp, barbed point on the end. “What’s that?”
“A gun for spearfishing.”
“Are we going fishing?”
“In a manner.”
The sudden appearance of a weapon made Neal feel uncomfortable. “I’m not sure that’s necessary.”
Pearson shrugged. “Depends on what happens when we find the money.”
The two men looked at each other for a long beat. Pearson held the speargun at an angle, not really pointing it at Neal but not really not pointing it at him either.
Neal cleared his throat. “Sure. That’s probably right.”
“Do you know where the money is?”
Neal shook his head. It was dawning on him that perhaps the artist was not working for Piet. “I don’t.”
The artist’s expression changed. He looked disappointed. For some reason Neal felt the need to elaborate.
“I’m trying to find it. But to be clear, the money belongs to the bank I work for.”
Pearson shrugged. “Maybe Mr. Spear will say different.”
Seo-yun pointed to a sign on a big white building. “There it is.”
Piet pulled the car into the marina parking lot just as Seo-yun saw her former colleague, Bryan LeBlanc, talking to a woman in front of the marina office. She let out a little yelp and ducked her head into Piet’s lap.
Piet put his hand on her head and gently pressed her face into his crotch. “I like driving with you, baby.”
Seo-yun lifted her head. “Cut it out. That’s him.”
Piet scanned the lot as he nonchalantly parked the car. He saw a man who looked like LeBlanc hugging a woman in white jeans.
“You sure?”
Seo-yun popped up and then ducked back down. “Positive.”
“Stay down.”
Seo-yun felt Piet’s penis begin to swell in his pants. She looked up at him. “Really?”
He shrugged. “I like you.” He turned the engine off and watched as LeBlanc walked down the pier. “The coast is clear.”
She sat up. “That was close.”
They opened their doors and got out of the car, trying to act natural, as if they weren’t following anyone, although Seo-yun did notice the bulge in Piet’s trousers and it made her smile. As they started walking toward the pier, Atlantic Starr began playing in her purse. “Shit.”
“He can recognize you. Stay in the car and lie low.”
She watched as he trotted off in LeBlanc’s direction and then she answered her phone. “What?” She listened for a moment and then said, “Please don’t call me bae. It means ‘shit’ in Danish. Did you know that? Who wants to be called shit?” She held the phone away from her ear, letting her fiancé’s nasal voice blare into the humid tropical air. Finally she said, “I’m sure grilled salmon will be fine.”
She hung up. He’d said, “I love you” about nineteen times before signing off. She knew he’d needed her to say it back to him, to let him hear a reassuring echo, but she didn’t want to say it.
She did love him in a way. He wasn’t a bad person, he meant well, and he adored her, but he was so annoying. Seo-yun didn’t know why, but denying him the “I love you”—knowing that it drove him crazy, turned him into a puddle of neurotic need and desperate clinginess—turned her on. She liked having the power.
She saw Piet round the corner and jog toward her as fast as he could while still appearing nonchalant.
Piet hated running. It was one thing that he just couldn’t do. He was an excellent swimmer and an avid cyclist, but running hurt his legs and had the added humiliation of looking comical. Being laughed at could really set him off. You think it’s funny being born with achondroplasia? Really?
Fuuuuuuck you.
Piet hated running and Christmas. He hated Santa Claus or Saint Nicholas or whatever you wanted to call the bearded guy in the red suit. In the Dutch tradition Saint Nicholas had an assistant named Zwarte Piet, a black elf who was either Santa’s little helper or his little enslaved person, depending on your point of view. Piet was black and short and named Piet, so Christmas was the time of year when he was subjected to a steady stream of racist and heightist insults and slurs that he was supposed to endure with a smile on his face. No one meant any harm. People were just joking. Just being jolly.
He didn’t celebrate Christmas. And he tried not to run unless it was absolutely necessary.
Which was why he and Seo-yun walked down the pier in the direction of LeBlanc’s boat.
“It’s the boat on the end. Down there.”
Seo-yun shielded her eyes. “Nice boat.”
“I think you should wait here. I’ll go subdue him.”
“Subdue him?”
Piet was annoyed that she wasn’t following his orders. After all, he had experience in these kinds of things. “Yeah. He’s dangerous.”
Seo-yun laughed. “Bryan?”
“Somebody put a conch through that guy’s head.”
“No way am I waiting here. This is the exciting part.”
Piet gritted his teeth. People didn’t like to get caught, they put up a fight, and he figured he’d probably have to fuck this guy up, but he didn’t tell her about that. “This bit is never as exciting as you think.”
They were only about halfway down the pier when Piet saw LeBlanc cast off and putter out of the marina toward the open ocean. Piet pointed. Seo-yun squinted at the boat as it turned down the channel. She raised her hand like a schoolgirl who knew the answer and waved at the boat. For some reason LeBlanc turned and gave her a wave in return.
“What’s that about?”
Seo-yun shrugged. “I’m not sure.”
She watched the sleek sailboat make another turn and head for open water. Piet grabbed her arm and said, “This isn’t over.”
He walked off toward a kiosk that was offering parasailing lessons.
When Bryan saw Seo-yun standing on the pier with what looked like a dwarf, he nearly shit himself. They had come so close to catching him. If he’d gone to dinner at Teresa’s—hell, if he’d bothered to shave this morning—he’d now be sitting in some office trying to explain himself while they carted all the money back to the bank. He’d barely had a chance to stow his gourmet cheeses.
He steered through the marina, past fishing boats, the occasional catamaran, a few speedboats tied to the dock, a Jet Ski rental place. He was annoyed with himself. He’d meticulously left false trails and fake clues, and still they’d almost caught him. He must have made a mistake somewhere along the line, underestimated Seo-yun, or gotten careless. Maybe he left a clue on his computer. He felt a cold chill race up his spine. If he’d been sloppy enough for them to find him, then maybe they’d figured out he murdered Leighton. Maybe they’d already told the Cayman police.
The boat motored out of the marina and Bryan was able to crank the throttle and pick up speed as he headed out to sea. He saw the wind vane on top of the mast catch the breeze. There was a strong gust coming from the south.
He fumbled a bit undoing the strap, then checked that the halyard was attached to the sail and began winching the rope, raising the sail. It caught the wind immediately and blew the boat sideways until he could reach the rudder and get it going in the right direction. From there he trimmed the sails and the boat began to pick up speed. He considered trying to pull out the asymmetrical spinnaker, but that might be too much; he hadn’t practiced hoisting the sails on this boat and was unsure of all the connections. He’d raise the jib as soon as he got a bit farther offshore. Right now he needed to get out into international waters.
He wondered if InterFund would press charges. He’d always assumed they wouldn’t; they’d have to extradite him and he’d make sure it got into the news cycle. It would have been terrible for client confidence, but who knows, nowadays corporations hired PR firms to spin the most lurid shit into gossamer. Maybe they would try to put him in jail for a million years.
But they hadn’t caught him yet. With a strong breeze and a head start, he could get out on the open ocean and be hard to find. By night he could get to Cuba, where there were lots of little coves and harbors to hide in. He still had a chance.
Seo-yun had called Neal and told him they’d seen Bryan sailing away. When Neal relayed this to Pearson, he drove his yellow Jeep to the marina, taking corners like a maniac.
When they got there, Piet was waiting in a speedboat with the engine idling. Neal saw Seo-yun waving frantically. He started to jog toward her but heard Pearson say, “Take it easy.” Neal felt the tip of the speargun prod his lower back and so he slowed down, letting the painter set the pace.
Seo-yun was standing by the boat, talking into h
er phone. She shouted, “He’s getting away. Come on.” She didn’t seem to notice the guy walking with him. The guy with the speargun in his hands.
He turned toward Pearson. “Stop poking me with that thing.”
Pearson didn’t say anything; he just poked Neal again and this time drew blood. Neal could feel a drop or two forming on his skin and slowly rolling down his back toward his buttocks. Unless that was sweat. It was crushingly hot out. But then sweating doesn’t begin with a sharp pain, so he probably was bleeding, not profusely or anything, just enough to require a tetanus booster.
Seo-yun started shouting at her cell phone. Neal heard her say something about tablecloths and not giving a fuck what color they were.
“Stop fucking around.” The sound of Pearson’s voice and a firm jab with the speargun snapped Neal to attention.
Piet revved the engine of the speedboat, causing it to buck and strain against the ropes, and shouted at Neal. “Come on!”
Seo-yun hung up her phone and climbed into the speedboat.
When Piet saw Pearson coming up behind Neal, he said, “Who’s that?”
“He’s an artist.”
“We don’t need an artist.”
Pearson shoved Neal into the speedboat, a move that revealed the speargun, and hopped in next to him. Neal saw a flash of concern on Piet’s face. “Oh. That kind of artist.”
Pearson turned to Piet. “Where are we going?”
Piet glared at him. “What’s it to you?”
Pearson pointed the speargun at Piet’s crotch. “If I were you I’d stop asking questions and drive the boat.”
Piet looked at Neal and said, “Unhook the fucking rope.”
Marinas have speed limits, but Piet didn’t care; he opened up the throttle and the twin Mercury motors began viciously churning the water. The acceleration threw Neal back against the side of the hull, slamming the spot where he’d already been poked by the speargun. He watched the speedboat’s wake hit the boats that were docked and set them rocking side to side as if they were on a gimbal. He heard a few angry shouts over the roar of the motors as the front of the boat lifted and they shot out toward the open ocean, hitting the waves with jolting thuds. He glanced at Seo-yun and saw she had a smile on her face, as if this was fun.
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