“Relax, buddy.” The pilot banked the plane sharply to the left. “I’ve been flying since ‘Nam and could land this thing on a dime with half a bottle of whiskey under my belt. Now just sit back and enjoy the landing.”
Ken gripped the arms of his seat as the plane descended to the dirt runway, the duct tape flapping and the windows rattling. Dust clouds billowed as the air craft bounced twice on touchdown.
The pilot made his first comment to Ken in several minutes. “Okay, buddy, grab your bag. When I turn around at the end of the runway hop out, start walking and don’t stop. San Juan is that way.” He pointed the direction the plane was bouncing down the runway. The plane slowed to a pace Ken was confident they wouldn’t crash unless there was a huge hole in the runway.
The plane rolled a short distance past the end of the runway onto a crop of something Ken didn’t recognize. The pilot reached for the accelerator and pushed it forward.
The engine screamed as the plane turned around. “Guess I misjudged it by a few feet.”
The plane rolled to a stop as it returned to the runway. The pilot sat there looking at Ken with bloodshot eyes. The pilot stared forward. “Time to go.”
As soon as Ken hit the ground and slammed the door the plane started down the runway, covering Ken with a heavy film of dust. Within a minute the plane was airborne and on its way back to Florida.
Ken surveyed the area. Aside from a shack at the far end of the airstrip there was nothing else in sight. Ken pulled out his cellphone and was pleased to find there was reception. Putting the phone away, he started walking towards the rural road on the other side of a fence that paralleled the runway. Approaching the road he hesitated and decided to walk in the field where the crop at the end of the runway was about four feet tall and gave him a place to hide if the police or military came to check out the mysterious landing.
The walking was slow through the course soil. On closer inspection Ken determined that the crop was tobacco. A group of workers were at the far end of the field across from him so he moved further towards the other end of the field.
Ken passed through two fields and along a road that took him to a road that paralleled the road by the airstrip but two miles south. Feeling more comfortable, he continued walking, carrying his bag on his shoulder. He reached the town of Humacao and rested in a small park while studying a map of Puerto Rico. He discovered he was sixty kilometres south of San Juan. In the centre of Humacao, Ken found the bus station, the next bus was in twenty minutes. He purchased a ticket, some snacks and bottled water from a vender at the rear of the building. After eating the food and drinking some of the water he cleaned himself up in the public washroom and purchased another bottle of water before getting on the bus. The bus was a pleasant surprise, large, modern, and air-conditioned. There were only ten passengers and Ken found a private seat in the rear where he used his bag as a pillow and slept comfortably for the trip. The bus pulled into San Juan near the plaza where Ken was to meet Eric at 9. He didn’t see his twin, so he decided to find accommodations and chose a rundown hotel a block off the plaza where he paid cash for a double room and decided he and Eric should enter at separate times so people wouldn’t realize they were twins. Ken glanced at news broadcasts in bars and restaurants along the streets and was pleased none of them carried a story on the brothers.
After stowing his bag in his room Ken walked around the centre of the city, wandering through the plaza several times looking for Eric.
* * *
Eric’s flight was on a better plane, but was emotionally far more uncomfortable. Once the plane was airborne the pilot kept asking probing questions. The man was clean-cut and sat up very straight in his seat. Eric wondered if he was ex-military. Vaguely answering each question, Eric stuck to the story of meeting a friend in Puerto Rico. Feeling pressure from the increased questioning Eric finally hinted to the pilot that it was actually a girlfriend he was meeting and he didn’t want his wife to find out. After several more minutes of questions Eric finally bluntly told the pilot it was his mistress he was meeting. The pilot smiled broadly and flew on in silence.
The plane made a smooth landing at an airport in Ponce, Puerto Rico. The airport was basic, but had some facilities.
As the plane came to a halt at the maintenance building at the end of the runway the pilot turned to Eric. “Well, here we are, I’ll have to get you cleared for entry. Would you like me to arrange a car to get you to San Juan?”
“Sure.”
The pilot jumped out of the plane and went into the hanger where a man worked on the engine of a plane. The two men had a brief conversation and the mechanic grabbed a telephone. The pilot then approached Eric’s side of the plane, opened Eric’s door, and pointed into the hanger. “Right, it’s all arranged. Miguel called his brother who’ll take you to San Juan for two hundred dollars.”
Eric grabbed his backpack and climbed down the steps of the plane. “Thanks for everything.”
“My pleasure. Now there is just the matter of the landing and service fees for the airport.” The pilot put out his hand.
“And how much are these fees?”
“The total…five hundred…cash.”
Eric pulled out the cash and handed it to the pilot. As the plane taxied down the runway Eric decided perhaps the pilot wasn’t as slow as he thought.
Eric entered the hanger where the mechanic was wrestling with a tight bolt on the right engine of the plane. The back door of the hanger opened and a middle-aged man walked up to the mechanic. They spoke in Spanish and Eric pretended he didn’t understand, but was comforted the conversation confirmed the man was simply going to drive Eric to San Juan.
The newly arrived man walked over to Eric and smiled. “Welcome to Puerto Rico, Señor. Shall we go?”
“All right, lets move.”
Eric followed the man outside and sat in the passenger seat of the car. The man was talkative and friendly. Eric steered the conversation to general topics like the climate and vegetation. They stopped about halfway to San Juan and Eric bought coffee and sandwiches for the driver and himself.
“Where to in San Juan, Señor?”
“The old square is supposed to be nice. You can drop me off there.”
They entered San Juan and the driver wound through the narrow streets, stopping one block from the square and pointed in that direction. “Here we are, Señor. Cars are not allowed in the square.”
Eric handed the man two hundred dollars.
“Oh, Señor, the agreed amount was three hundred.”
Eric hesitated, paid the additional hundred dollars, got out of the car, and walked towards the square. He glanced back. The driver was smiling and waving goodbye.
Eric checked his watch. It was 11 PM. He sat at a street-side bar and ordered a beer. Half an hour later, Ken appeared at the far end of the square. Ken sat across from his brother and ordered a beer for himself.
“Everything go all right, Eric?”
“Fine, fine. They stung me for more money, but I made it. You?”
Ken laughed. “Me too, but we’re almost home, probably by tomorrow if the flights are good”
“Separate flights again?”
“Last time.”
“I’ll come in a little later than you diverting through the main island and cross by ferry from there.”
* * *
Jarred Smith picked up Thorpe and Collins at nine the next morning.
“Good morning, gentlemen. I hope you slept well.”
“Indeed we did, Jarred,” responded Collins.
“Excellent. We have a reservation on the ferry to take us to the South Island.”
The bright red, green, and black flag of St. Kitts perched on the front-right fender of the police car flapped in the wind as they drove the winding road to the ferry terminal. The scenery was spectacular. Beautiful beaches, huge fields of sugar cane, and palm trees filled with coconuts. It was like paradise, the last place killers like Ken and Eric Clelland deserved to
live.
The small ferry made the seven-mile journey to the island of Nevis while the Canadian detectives went over notes with Jarred Smith.
Smith suggested they check the house first.
“Good plan,” added Thorpe. “Can we approach it without being spotted in case the brothers have already arrived?”
“Yes, we can park a couple of streets away and walk.”
Thorpe explained to Smith the boys were very cautious and might have someone keeping an eye out for police.
“I think we can get a look around without arousing suspicion. I can approach the house alone and tell whoever might be there that I’m showing some Americans property in the area and ask if the house is for sale.”
Thorpe and Collins liked the idea. The ferry landed and the detectives were in Charlestown in twenty minutes. The town of just under two thousand people was a mixture of expensive oceanfront villas and more modest housing as you moved inland. The commercial area consisted of one street with bustling stores and cafes.
Smith parked the car on the main street. “The address is two blocks away. We can walk from here.” He grabbed a camera, binoculars, and briefcase. “I suggest we hire a boat and go past the house from the sea to get our first look.”
“Let’s do it,” said Collins. The Canadians were excited about confronting the two young men.
Smith made a phone call and led Thorpe and Collins to a marina a few blocks away. Sailboats filled most of the slips and Smith showed them a twenty-foot sailboat without a crew. Smith signed the rental agreement and grabbed three life jackets. The three officers boarded and Smith cast off the lines.
“Uh, Jarred, where’s the crew” asked Thorpe anxiously.
“You’re looking at it. When you live on St. Kitts you learn to swim and sail before you learn to walk.”
With effortless precision Smith brought the boat about and raised two sails. Soon they were skimming along the coast, moving within viewing distance of the Clelland house. Thorpe crouched behind the cabin with binoculars in hand, looking at the house in the distance. To his right Thorpe saw Collins leaning over the side of the boat, throwing up.
“Ahoy, land lubber,” kidded Thorpe.
Smith shook his head and laughed. “Give him a break. He’s getting it out of his system.”
“I can only handle riding in a boat if I have a fishing rod in my hand.”
Smith flipped open a storage bin behind him and pulled out a fishing rod. “There’s the answer. Besides, it’ll make us look more realistic.” He tossed it over to Collins who hooked on a lure and dropped the line in the water.
The boat slowly glided past the two-level house. The walls were floor-to-ceiling windows. Two expansive decks ran in front of the windows. A set of winding stone steps led down to a private dock. There were no boats moored at the dock, but two kayaks sat on the sandy beach.
“I don’t see any movement in the house,” said Thorpe. “Just a sec, someone is inside there.”
Collins set the rod aside and joined Thorpe.
Smith handed Collins a more powerful set of binoculars.
“Top floor,” said Thorpe.
Collins focused the binoculars. “I got it, it’s a cleaning lady. She’s dusting. There’s a vacuum in the room as well.”
“It’s either regular cleaning or preparing for the return of the owners,” added Smith.
“I definitely like option two,” said Collins.
The sailboat glided past the house.
“I’ll tack and move past again,” said Smith. “You’ll want to move to the other side of the boat to keep hidden.”
The boat moved past the house six times. The cleaning lady went through each room. A delivery truck from a grocery store brought a large shipment of food.
Smith pulled the boat up to the public dock and the three policemen sat at a table at the end of the pier.
“With that much food delivered it’s a safe bet they’re here or arriving soon,” said Collins.
“Agreed, I think it’s time we turned the tables on these two,” said Thorpe. “What we need to do is set up a welcome home surprise for them.”
Smith sipped on an iced coffee. “I’ll set up surveillance at the ferry terminals and the airports.”
“Good idea,” added Collins. “If these two have bought property here they were likely planning to stay and not cause trouble. I think our best move is to watch for them and simply take them when they’re occupied.”
Chapter Thirteen
The three detectives were not the only ones enjoying coffee nearby on the small island. In the shadows of an inside table of a café across the street from the detectives Ken, dressed in shorts and a tee shirt, sipped on a double espresso. He caught a late night flight from San Juan the previous night and caught some sleep on a quiet beach outside of Charlestown. He was having breakfast while he waited for the cleaning service to finish with the house. Just as the food was brought to the table his appetite disappeared as he recognized the two Canadian detectives drive by and pull up to the public pier down the road. He watched the three policemen sail back and forth in front of the Clelland’s house. Unable to understand how the police figured out where they were headed, he went over every detail of their time in Toronto and Edmonton and could not find anything that could possibly lead the police to this island. He ordered another coffee and looked around the café. He saw a rear door he could use if the police came in the front door. He paid as soon as they brought the coffee so it wouldn’t alarm the staff if he left in a hurry.
Ken pulled out his cellphone and called Eric.
“What is it now, Ken. You better be calling to tell me you have the fridge stocked with beer and the living room stocked with women.”
“Afraid not, brother. Keep your head down, Collins and Thorpe are in town.”
“Bull shit.”
“No, Eric, I’m serious. Now, where are you?”
“I’m just getting off the ferry on Nevis. What the hell are we going to do?”
“The first thing is, we have to relax. We can’t let our emotions lead to our undoing. For Christ sake, I only saw them two hours ago. Just keep out of sight.”
“Where do I go?”
“Grab some food and water and go to Oulaie Beach and wait for me.”
“I think I’m going to turn around and get the hell out of here.”
“Stay calm, Eric.”
“Why? Give me one good reason I should.”
“I’ll give you tens of thousands of good reason. Half the money we have is sitting in that mailbox we rented at the courier outlet, and we can’t get to it until morning.”
“Fine, what the fuck are we going to do?”
“What do you think we’re going to do? We’re going to get the hell out of here, but we have to watch our asses and get that money. With those detectives here it won’t be long before everyone will be looking for us. One of us can slip into the courier company unseen when they open in the morning. The staff will be dealing with the usual lineup of delivery trucks in the back. It should be easy. Eric, just get to the beach and catch your breath, all right?”
“All right, all right.” Eric ended the call.
Ken kept one eye on the detectives across the street while his mind continued working through could have happened in the last few months to lead the police to Charlestown. No matter how many times he went over it he could think of nothing. He looked at his empty coffee cup and his state-of-the-art cellphone. Ken stared at the phone and at the table across the street where the three policemen still talked, their car marked number fifteen, parked outside the building.
Hell, if I can out-tech the Canadian police in Canada, it should be easy here. Ken sipped the last few drops of coffee and headed out the back door of the coffee shop.
Ken’s first stop was the electronics store where he purchased the items required to make small listening devices, a small power generator, a portable light, and a computer with the wireless capability to record the si
gnals from the listening devices. He took the equipment to a small cabin among a heavy growth of palm trees just outside of town and set up the generator outside the door, its soft hum too low to draw any attention.
“No more mistakes. No more mistakes,” he said as he double and triple-checked the electronic equipment, finally attaching double-sided tape to the bottom of each tiny listening device.
After sunset he put on dark clothes and a hat, turned on the computer and the wireless connection, and slipped them into the corner of the cabin. He put the two listening devices into his pocket, walked out the door, and headed out into the dark streets.
His first stop was near his house. Careful to keep out of sight, Ken stayed far enough away to avoid anybody spotting him and methodically checked the streets. Finally he came upon the police car parked in a small shopping centre three blocks away. The shopping centre was closed and no police were in sight. His next stop was the local grocery store where he searched until he saw what he was looking for, a selection of bathroom supplies. There was only one item in stock, a plastic mesh scrub brush. While Ken inspected the brush closely he slipped the listening device well inside the mesh, making sure the tape adhered to the plastic base of the handle, and made a note of the part number and a short list of other bathroom supplies. He then purchased some food and water before leaving the store.
Once outside and down the street, Ken phoned the store and placed a delivery order that included the specific scrub-brush, towels, and the other bathroom supplies he had listed in the store. He asked them to bill his account and have them delivered to the house right away. The store assured him that they would arrive within an hour.
Ken walked to within viewing distance of his house and watched from behind some bushes. He sat in the dark until he saw the delivery boy drop off the products.
Inside the house the police were carefully going through the house. When the doorbell rang the policemen drew their weapons.
Rough Business Page 15