by Allan Topol
* * *
Martin buzzed his secretary, “Google Allison Boyd.” He recalled what Paul had told him. “She’s a professor of archeology at Brown University. Print what you get and put it in an envelope.”
In the cab in a light rain on the way to Camelot Martin opened the envelope. Allison Boyd’s academic awards and articles were impressive. She made a real name for herself at a young age. Must be damn smart. Just what I don’t need, he thought.
Even worse, she had tenacity. After several years of effort on her part, she had recently received funding to try to uncover a town from the time of King Solomon.
And on top of all that, she had been on the US Olympic team that won a bronze medal for field hockey, scoring a goal in the Barcelona Olympics. So she was physically tough.
Her bio convinced him he had to be firm with Jasper. Not like Tuesday when he’d wimped out because of Jasper’s tears.
Martin didn’t like Camelot and went there only when someone else selected it. A seedy joint, four blocks from the Capitol, it had opened during the Kennedy Administration. Then and now it was a hangout for lobbyists and congressmen to cut secret deals. And it was used as a rendezvous for men carrying on clandestine affairs to meet their lovers for dinner and dancing.
Entering the octopus-like structure, with alcoves branching out in several directions, Martin looked around, adjusting his eyes to the dim light. Coats of armor, spears, and other medieval paraphernalia were scattered on display. Above the bar, he noticed a painting of a large reclining nude with thick brown pubic hair, a Rubenesque figure extending her arms out toward two helmeted warriors. One of her hands held a red rose, the other a white rose. Next to it was a large painting of a ship partially submerged. A caption underneath said “LOOSE LIPS SINK SHIPS.”
He spotted Jasper in a purple velvet booth across the room and hurried over. As soon as he sat down a young blonde waitress, scantily clad in a white diaphanous costume, appeared. She leaned over to place a coaster in front of him, exposing her breasts, nipples and all. “What d’ya want to drink, honey?”
“I’m having a scotch and water,” Jasper said.
“Perrier for me, Martin said.”
“Pellegrino.”
“Whatever.”
Martin looked around, feeling nervous. He was relieved that Camelot was largely deserted. No one close enough to hear them.
“I’m busy as hell,” Jasper sounded annoyed. “What happened now that’s so important?”
The waitress returned with his drink.
Martin began speaking softly. “I just heard from Gorton. Vanessa Boyd’s sister is going to Anguilla. She’ll get there tomorrow.”
“Allison. She’s Vanessa’s twin.”
“You know her?”
“Never met her. But Vanessa talked plenty about her. She said Allison’s the smart twin. She’s a professor at Brown.”
“I pulled up her info on the Internet. She’s an archaeologist, used to digging. She will find out what happened.”
“No, no. Not if you pay off Gorton. And have him spread money around. I’ll ante up the cash.”
Martin fumed. “Don’t even think about that. I’ve already done one stupid thing. I won’t compound the problem. Besides, you’re being absurd. Paying off a few people on Anguilla will not stop Allison from finding out that Vanessa was with you.” He paused. “And that her body was moved to avoid implicating you.”
“Then I guess I’m screwed.” Jasper sounded bitter. “She’ll come back and call a press conference, yapping, ‘let me tell you what happened to my poor innocent sister.’”
“It does not have to end up like that. You still have a way out.”
His face twisted into a snarl, Jasper glared at Martin. “Yeah. What?”
“Go down there with me. Right now. We’ll charter a plane. Get there and back before she arrives. We’ll straighten it out. Explain to the authorities what really happened Sunday evening. We’ll …”
Jasper’s face was turning beet red. “You’re still peddling that shit. I told you Tuesday night …” He was raising his voice. “N.F.W. No fuckin’ way.”
“Shhh. Keep your voice down.”
“Then get the hell off this kick.”
“Listen, Wes. Think for a minute about what happened. You have nothing to hide. It was an accident. Wasn’t it?”
“Of course it was.”
“Well, you’ve been in this town a long time. You know that the cover-up is what brings people down.”
Jasper now had a menacing scowl. “It’s all your fault.”
Martin was incredulous. “You were the one screwing this bimbo. I was home having dinner.”
“Don’t you get sanctimonious with me. Sunday night you should have told me to go to the police, counselor.”
Martin was livid, but he kept his anger in check. “I don’t believe I’m hearing this.”
“Then keep your ears open. I have something you’ll like even less.” Jasper locked eyes with Martin. “If I go down, I’m pulling you with me.” He was speaking in a voice devoid of emotion, so hard and cold it cut through Martin like a knife. “You’re the one responsible for the cover-up. Not me. You made the call to Gorton. I don’t even know the man. You arranged to move the body to avoid a scandal which would wreck your chance to be chief justice. That’s what I’ll tell people.”
Martin was so stunned he couldn’t speak.
Jasper pointed a stubby finger at him. “Face it. You want me to fly to Anguilla to save your own ass. So you can be chief justice. At least admit it.”
“That’s ridiculous. I’m trying to help you.”
“Are you? Think about it. If the records are corrected, the cover-up you engineered goes away. That’s the part that’s good for you. But my little fun-filled weekend will make huge headlines. Linda will blast me for adultery and divorce me. I’ll lose the reelection.”
“But it was at my house.”
“Nobody will care about that. You lent your house to a friend. You assumed he was taking his wife. Big fucking deal.”
Jasper had a point. Martin had made a terrible error, been totally stupid in calling Gorton Sunday night to move the body.
His eyes blazing with hatred, Jasper let out a surly laugh. “You want to throw me to the wolves to save your own hide. Friends don’t act like that. And don’t you even dream about going to Anguilla on your own. If you do that, or any word of this hits the press because of Allison or anyone else, I’ll be the one going to the papers. And you’ll be toast. No more chief justice. It’ll all go down the drain.”
Jasper made a gurgling noise to emphasize the plumbing metaphor, then he rose, left the table, and headed for the door.
Dumbfounded, Martin sat there. He couldn’t believe the man. He still had to get through this somehow, but he vowed never to speak to Jasper again.
Gorton was his only chance. Gorton had to prevent Allison from learning what happened. And more than his Supreme Court appointment was at stake. So was his reputation—his ethical, well-respected life and career.
Miami and Anguilla
Allison was fit to be tied. For what must have been the twentieth time, she interrogated the American Airlines gate agent at Miami airport. “Will this plane ever take off for San Juan?”
“I’m very sorry, Miss. But our mechanics are still assessing the problem. We’ll have a decision in thirty minutes.”
She shook her hand and stamped her foot. “We’re already four hours late. A decision? I don’t want a decision. I want to get to San Juan so I can make a connection to Anguilla.”
“Our agents in San Juan will assist you.”
“Yeah right.”
To pass the time, she reread the Anguilla portion of a Caribbean guidebook:
The island, fifteen miles long, in a predominantly east-west direction, and two miles wide, is nestled in the eastern Caribbean close to St. Martin and home to only nine thousand residents. In the 1960s, the Anguillans persuaded England not to con
fer independence and force them into a federation with St. Kitts and Nevis. So the island still remains a British territory with London appointing a governor, while locals control day to day affairs.
Then she heard the announcement. “Flight 891 to San Juan is now ready for boarding.”
* * *
As soon as she stepped off the plane in San Juan, there was more bad news. “The last nonstop to Anguilla has been cancelled,” an agent told her. “We’ve rerouted you through St. Martin. Your plane leaves in two hours.”
She wanted to scream. Is God sending me a message? Forget about Anguilla and go back to Israel?
No, she wouldn’t surrender, she thought with determination. She loved her sister too much for that. Regardless of the obstacles, she’d overcome them.
* * *
Finally at ten after eight in the evening, Allison, riding alone with the pilot, took off in a six seater, World War II vintage prop for the ten minute flight from St. Martin to Anguilla. Flying always made her nervous, and small planes even more so.
Terrified, as they tossed around in the wind, she gripped the arm rests with white knuckles.
When the plane touched down at Wellblake Airport, it was night, with a full moon in a sky laced with clouds. Walking toward the terminal she felt the blast of balmy tropical air, still in the low eighties, making her clothing stick to her skin. She was processed quickly through emigration by a young woman with black skin and a bright smile. “Welcome to our island … I hope you’ll enjoy your stay.”
From the back of the taxi, an old beat-up white Chevy, she got her first glimpse of what she recalled another guidebook describing as “the jewel of the Caribbean, with some of the best beaches, best food, and friendliest people of any of the islands.” As the cab drove on the left side, it bounced over a deserted and poorly lit road full of pot holes. She passed small houses built from cinder and wood and children playing on the road, illuminated by a light from time to time. She saw an occasional goat or dog in untamed vegetation along the side of the road. She felt very much alone and vulnerable.
The driver, a heavyset man, said, “It’s good you didn’t come last year on this date.”
“Why’s that?”
“The big one hit. Hurricane Nellie. Mon, the water six-foot high on dis road. No power. That was the mother. It blew and blew three days. Lost me whole house. Just a pile of bricks and wood. And I got a feelin’ another one’s gunna hit us again this year. All that global warming stuff. And real soon. How long you plannin’ to stay?”
“Just a couple of days.”
“Well, if she starts blowin, you take care.”
“Aren’t there warnings for a big storm?”
“Sometime yes. Sometime no. De biggest ones always fool dem experts. Dey think de’ll goin’ one direction. Dey turn and go another.”
Great, Allison thought. She leaned back on the torn leather seat and closed her eyes, hoping the driver would stop talking. Mercifully, he did.
She didn’t open them again until he jolted to a stop, “Corinthian Hotel.”
Allison was surprised. In the guidebooks she’d seen the white Moorish Cap Jaluca Hotel that exuded quiet luxury with sweeping lines surrounded by magnificent vegetation. Allison figured her sister would surely have stayed at a place like that. But there was nothing luxurious about the Corinthian. It looked just adequate with three stories, its pink stones freshly painted for the season. The front had sparse vegetation, lit by a row of lights, about half of which were out, running along the path from the driveway to the entrance. Vanessa would never have picked this place. But her lover may have.
As Allison stepped out of the cab, she noticed a man bounding toward her from the hotel almost as if he’d been shot from a gun, short and squat with tan skin, an open mouth, smiling, showing off large ivory teeth.
“I’m John Burt, the manager here.”
“How do you do, Mr. Burt. I’m Allison Boyd. My sister …”
“I know, Missy. A terrible accident. We spoke yesterday on the phone.”
“I need to talk to you some more.”
“Sure, sure, but first, I’ll get you settled in your room.”
While he carried her duffel, Allison followed him inside. Except for the two of them, the hotel seemed empty. She thought of a Stephen King novel about a deserted hotel. Her knees wobbled.
“You still want your sister’s room, Missy?” Burt was smiling showing those teeth.
“Please.”
“Room six it is. You come with me.”
They climbed a wide wooden staircase with a polished railing. Room six, Allison noted, had been freshly painted and had a musty smell. Burt put down her bag on a luggage rack.
“Is there air conditioning?”
“Here it is.” He flung open the French doors leading to a wrought iron patio, a breeze blowing in from the Caribbean. Looking out, under the moon, Allison saw lapping waves splashing against the sand.
“You come down when you’re ready, Missy.”
She surveyed the room. Thinking that Vanessa spent her last days here, she felt a surge of sadness and began crying. Then, seeing the king-sized bed strengthened her resolve. Vanessa hadn’t been alone. Sadness gave way to anger.
Who’s the bastard who killed her? Or watched her die? Then took off like a thief in the night?
Burt was waiting for her in the dining room, facing the sea, a wall of French doors open to a wooden deck over the sand. He was alone except for a tall thin islander in a white jacket standing behind the bar wiping glasses.
“How about a rum punch, Missy? The specialty of the house.”
“That sounds good. Please don’t call me Missy.”
“Lon, two rum punches.”
When seated at a table with the drinks, Allison asked, “Where are the other guests?”
“Our season doesn’t begin until the middle of December. Also hurricanes hit now.”
“So it’s just me in the hotel?”
“For tonight. But I ordered a lobster for you. Cook will grill it in a little while. There’s nothing so good as our lobsters.”
“Listen to me, Mr. Burt…”
“Please, you call me John.”
“John, then.” Her mouth was dry. She paused to sip the drink. Wow, potent stuff. “Listen, John, I’m not here for a vacation. I want to know what happened to my sister.”
“Okay, sure.”
“Good, then tell me.”
“You know, I really liked your sister. Very classy lady. She called a couple weeks ago. She wanted a quiet place for a long weekend. To relax. Too much tension in Washington. So she came. Arrived Saturday afternoon.”
“Who was with her?”
“Nobody, missy. Uh, Miss Boyd.”
“You’re sure?”
“I met her taxi. Like I did with yours tonight.”
“So tell me, what did she do during those two days?”
He waved his arm toward the sea. “Mostly she laid on the beach. ‘Working on my suntan,’ she said.”
That did sound like Vanessa “Did she meet anybody?”
“She ate alone right here. All her meals.”
“Did she do anything unusual?”
“Well …”
Was he hesitating? “Tell me.”
“Both nights she went down to the beach. She said she likes to swim at night. I told her be careful.” He paused, then dropped his voice. “She was so beautiful. I watched her from a window upstairs.”
“And?”
He looked down.
“Go on.”
“The first night she took off her bathing suit. Lovely, lovely body. Truly gorgeous. When she came out of the water, she dried off, put on her suit, and came back in.”
“And you were staring at her the whole time?”
He looked at his hands.
Thinking of this creepy man leering at Vanessa infuriated her. But then, wouldn’t most men do exactly the same thing?
“You want me to continue?”
She nodded.
“Sunday night, she did the same thing. While she was out on the beach, the phone rang. I was gone maybe twenty minutes.” He sounded apologetic. “When I got back to my window, she was stretched out on the sand. Not moving.”
“What did you do then?”
“I ran out. She looked like she was dead.”
“Why did you think that?”
“I touched her. I mean her pulse. Just her pulse.”
“And then?”
“I called the police. They told me not to move her body. Just watch it. They will send people. Then two young policemen came. They took her away in their ambulance.”
She slowly sipped up her drink. The story was ludicrous. Vanessa wouldn’t swim naked at night by herself. With men, true, she could be reckless and uninhibited. But alone, or even with Allison, she was careful. If she was with a man and high on booze or pot, she might well have gone skinny dipping, as she’d done as a teenager in Hueston Woods Lake. But her being found in the nude, stretched out on the beach, just didn’t add up.
“I want to talk to Har Stevens, the police chief. Will you call him for me?”
“Now?”
“Yes, at home if necessary.”
He shook his head. “Har went to St. Martin for the evening. You’ll have to wait until tomorrow morning.”
Now she felt a cold edge in his voice. “What about the two young policemen?”
“They won’t talk to you until Har tells them to.”
“So I can’t do anything else this evening?”
He raised his hand and pointed toward the kitchen. A woman in a black uniform carried out a tray with a grilled lobster, salad, and French fries. She brought another rum punch and a bottle of water.
Burt stood up. “I’ll leave you to eat.”
She looked at the lobster. “What happened to the claws?”
“Our lobsters don’t have claws. Up north, they need them to defend themselves. Ours is a kinder place.”
“It wasn’t for my sister.”
He walked away. She hadn’t eaten all day, she realized, and she needed her strength. The lobster was sweet and tasty. But after three bites, the potent rum drink hit her. She couldn’t keep her eyes open.
Stumbling up the stairs, she thought about Paul. How terrific her dinner with him had been. And how helpful he wanted to be. Was she crazy coming down here when she could be back with him?