Eric was staring at the fire when Ken grabbed his arm and turned him around. “Let’s go. Now!”
The Clellands walked around the city hall and came face to face with a wall of police. Panic struck both boys until the closest policeman pushed them aside, making room for the fire trucks trying to move through the narrow streets crowded with people interested in the fiery spectacle. After walking several blocks the only signs of the fire were the blaring sirens and the smoke rising into the air.
“Christ, Ken. I’m glad you showed up. That square would have been swarming with police and one of them might have spotted me.”
“Yeah, we were lucky.” Ken didn’t want to tell Eric he was followed and nearly got them caught, needing time to think about the next move and to decide what to do about his idiot brother.
“Eric, we have to get further away from St. Kitts. You may be right about the police watching for us here. I’m sure the police are advising all countries within easy reach of Nevis.”
“What the hell are we going to do?”
“First thing is to get transport out of here, and do it without getting spotted. I think I know how we can do that, but we need to see how much money we have.”
The brothers continued walking away from the centre of Caracas when Ken spotted a large iron gate leading into the university and the attached botanical park. “Let’s slip in here and get our plans settled.”
They sat at a table overlooking a manmade lake, lush vegetation surrounding them but the Clellands were virtually unaware of the beautiful scenery.
Ken counted the cash in his bag while Eric watched to make sure nobody saw them, or their money.
“Okay, I’ve got five grand Canadian, and six-hundred U.S. dollars. Now I’ll keep watch while you count yours.”
“Um, that won’t be necessary. Somebody stole most of my money just after we landed on the island.”
“It’s all gone?”
“Yeah, sorry. I was watching carefully, but they were real pros. Pickpockets”
Ken just smiled. He was past the point of anger, now thoroughly convinced his brother was destined to do something to get them caught. The only question remaining was what Ken was going to do with him. “Okay, no sweat, brother, we’ll just have to use an online bank account and withdraw what we need from one of our secret accounts.”
Ken handed Eric five hundred dollars. “Now, use this to get to La Cruz. You remember where it is?”
“Sure, on the way back to the island.”
“Exactly. I’ll meet you at the city hall there in two hours. Keep your hat and glasses on and get a taxi. We can’t risk traveling together, so I’ll meet you there.”
“Okay.”
“And remember, only speak Spanish.”
“What about you?”
“I’ll be fine. See you there.”
Ken walked away almost in a daze, furious at the carelessness of his brother. Now he was forced to do something desperate again. He stopped at a store and bought a small knife and then waved down a taxi. He negotiated through hand signals and notes for a trip to La Cruz. They agreed on a fare of two-hundred dollars and were on their way. Eric had similar results and relaxed in the back of his air-conditioned taxi, confidently conversing with the driver, the driver believing his passenger was from Madrid.
Chapter Fifteen
Collins, Thorpe, and Smith, sat at a table in the Nevis police department, sorting through the evidence which all led to a dead end.
“Christ, we were so close.” Collins slammed his fist on the table. “Jarred, have we checked every possible way off the island?”
“All the public ones anyhow. There are, of course, many charter boats and other vessels that ply international waters without giving word to the government. They can come and go as they please. The only time they might encounter a government official is if they enter another country and have to check in with the proper authorities.” Smith swept his hand across the map of the hundreds of island near St. Kitts. “Of course, it’s well known that many of these countries have lax controls on their borders.”
The secretary in the small police department came across the intercom system. “Detective Smith, line 2. Detective Smith, line 2.”
Thorpe and Collins stared at the map as Smith took the call, surprising them by talking in fluent Spanish. The excitement in his voice caught the attention of the two Canadian detectives. The only word they clearly understood was the repeated “gracias” at the end of the conversation.
Smith’s large smile drew the detectives nearer to the desk. “Well, we caught a break. A local small time drug dealer named Vincent Harrison claims he has information for us.”
“Let’s move.” Thorpe jumped out of his chair.
“Move we must.” Smith walked over to the map and pointed at the city of Caracas. “He’s in the hospital in Venezuela. He’s in serious condition from a stab wound, but is expected to survive.”
“Before we take off for Venezuela, how do we know he has legitimate information for us?”
Smith leaned on the back of a chair. “The local police say he described the Clellands perfectly, including details he says they gave him on what they did in Edmonton. He also claimed he was kidnapped by them and forced to take them to Venezuela, where Ken stuck a knife in his back and left him for dead.”
The detectives climbed onto a small private plane and flew directly to Caracas where a car met them at the airport and took them to the hospital where Vincent was recovering. The driver of the car was the local detective assigned to the attempted murder case. He explained to Smith in Spanish that guards are watching Vincent’s hospital room for two reasons. First, they found many confusing details in his story. He said he was forced to take the twins to Venezuela but couldn’t clarify why they brought him to downtown Caracas before they tried to kill him. As well, he claimed he couldn’t remember where he docked the boat.
Smith translated the story into English for Collins and Thorpe. “Miraculously, Vincent can clearly remember details about the reward offered for information, but is sketchy on everything else. He even had a newspaper article about the incident in Edmonton.”
“Well,” added Collins. “How can we trust him and why are we here?”
“The police said they have surveillance video from the central square showing Ken and Eric leaving just after Vincent was stabbed.”
“All right, that’s better. This guy was obviously with them. Let’s go hear what he has to say.”
The police car pulled up to the Caracas hospital and the detectives were led to the room where Vincent was perched sideways on the bed, his back heavily damaged. On the drive to the hospital the four policemen agreed the local policemen would leave the room so Vincent wouldn’t feel intimidated. They stood with the guards outside the door.
Smith took the lead inside the room. “Hello again Vincent, what trouble you got yourself into now?”
“I’m okay, Smitty, just got in with the wrong people.”
“Sure, Vincent, sure. Let’s hear what you have, and no bullshit?”
“Easy, Smitty. I’m in pain and my memory ain’t so good.”
“Nothing that a few years in prison won’t cure.”
“Easy now, I’m about to give you those blond cop-killers. I think you should make me your best friend, not threaten me.”
“I’ve always treated you fair, Vincent. This is Detective Collins and Thorpe from Canada. They’ve been after those two for quite a while. Now, why don’t you tell us what you know?”
Vincent looked at Collins and Thorpe with wary eyes. “How do I know you’ll give me the reward money if I give you the information?”
Collins walked up to Vincent. “Pal, if you give us information that helps us nab those two I’ll personally deliver the hundred-thousand dollars to your house, boat, or prison cell.”
“Comforting, but I won’t say a word until I have Smitty’s word I’ll be a free man back home,” said Vincent.
Coll
ins went into the far corner of the room. Smith and Thorpe joined him.
“Well,” Thorpe said, “I guess it’s up to you, Jarred.”
Jarred Smith leaned against a wall. “Well, our friend Vincent here has had a string of luck. First he runs into two brothers about to help him earn a pile of money. Then he gets knifed with an eight-inch blade and it misses his heart by millimetres. I say we make him three-times-lucky…sure Vincent, we’ll give you one more break on this one.”
The Canadian detectives went back to Vincent. Collins leaned close to the drug dealer’s face, speaking softly. “Vincent, we’ll talk. We’ll even work out the deal of your dreams. But, if you bullshit us even once we’ll walk out that door and let our friend Detective Smith drag you back to St. Kitts and work up a list of charges that will have you behind bars for years. Understand?”
The smirk disappeared from Vincent’s face. “I understand.”
“Good,” continued Collins. “Tell us how Ken and Eric got in touch with you and how you ended up in this mess.”
“Sure, sure. I knew Eric from before, I would supply him with a little weed. You know, just for fun.”
The detectives stood and stared.
Vincent continued, “Well, yesterday my phone rang and it was Eric. He asked me to give him and his brother a ride on my boat.”
“How much were they paying for this ride?” asked Thorpe.
“Just a few grand. They asked me to take them to Venezuela and to keep my mouth shut.”
“And how did you end up with the hole in your back?” asked Smith.
“Sure. I followed Eric to, you know, get the reward.”
“A true friend,” said Thorpe.
“Hey, you want the truth. Well, I’m no angel. I gotta make a living.”
“Who stabbed you?” said Smith, writing in on a notepad.
“I was sitting at a café watching Eric when I caught a glimpse of Ken approaching. Before I knew it, I was barely able to breathe. If that damn fire hadn’t distracted me I would have seen him coming. I was watching out real good.”
Collins looked up from his notepad. “What fire?”
“A room in this old hotel across the street from me suddenly caught fire. Everyone was going crazy on the street.”
Thorpe stepped over to Smith. “I think you’ll find that it was arson and the room was rented to someone who fits the description of one of the Clelland boys, they specialize in diversions. Go on Vincent, you said you can help us find them.”
The wry smile returned to Vincent’s face. “Hell, I can do better than that. I have them two telling you where they’ll go.”
“How so” asked Collins.
“In my business I must be careful so I keep a small tape recorder on the boat so I can keep on top of what they’re up to. So… on my boat there is a recording of those two talking about where they’re going to live.”
The detectives stood in silence. The Canadian detectives nodded at Smith.
“Okay, Vincent. You have a deal, if this tape exists.”
“Oh, it exists. It’s hidden in a compartment behind the radio on the boat.”
“And where is this boat?”
Vincent squirmed as best he could. “Uh, I can tell you, but you promise you’ll leave everything alone except the tape.”
“Depends. What other surprises are on board.”
“There’s just a little grass and the money they paid me for the trip.” Vincent locked eyes with Smith. “I swear, Jarred. I will live a good clean life on that money and the reward. No bullshit.”
“Alright Vincent, but we’ll toss any drugs overboard.”
“Fine, fine. The boat is at dock three at Porlamar on Margarita Island.”
Smith grabbed the door handle. “I assume it’s the same green piece of junk.”
“Same one, Jarred.”
“All right, Vincent, you’ll be looked after here. When you’re ready we’ll have you shipped home. If your story checks out, we’ll keep our word.”
The detectives informed the local police of the situation and, along with the Venezuelan detective, caught a plane for Margarita Island.
* * *
Eric’s one and one-half hour drive was pleasant. He enjoyed the ocean scenery and chatted with the driver. The driver was familiar with La Cruz and dropped Eric off in front of the city hall.
Ken’s trip from Caracas to La Cruz was nerve-racking. The driver spoke little and only seemed to look in the mirror when Ken was looking away. The driver also glanced at Ken through the driver’s side mirror. Ken pretended he didn’t notice, but there were two things would make the driver this nervous. The first was a concern whether he would pay the fare when they arrived at La Cruz. The second was the man recognized him from the newspapers or television. Ken kept a discrete but close eye on the driver through his heavily shaded sunglasses. He leaned back in the seat, not moving, so the driver wouldn’t know if his passenger was awake or asleep.
Ken noticed the cellphone on the front seat and the fact the driver had taken several looks at it, then back at Ken.
He came to the conclusion he had to do something. It wasn’t worth the risk that the driver would call the police, and Ken could end up in prison. They were approaching Cumara and he needed to get the driver to stop in an isolated area. He could only think of one way. He decided to use a plan similar to the one that worked so well in Caracas.
Ken moved slowly and removed the lighter from his pocket. He pulled a piece of paper out of his other pocket and carefully moved his hands closer together, making sure the driver couldn’t see. On the road ahead he saw exits into the fields. He quietly crumpled the paper into a ball and lit it, dropping it on the floor, and gently kicking it under the front seat on the other side of the car.
Ken remained motionless, pretending to still be asleep. The smell and smoke from the burning paper filled the car and the driver suddenly started shouting. Ken pretended he was startled awake, leaned forward, and grabbed the knife out his right pocket. With his hands behind the seat Ken unfolded the knife blade.
“What happened?” Ken knew the man wouldn’t understand him.
The driver was shouting and pointing to the seat of the car.
Ken looked towards the fire. “No!” He pointed to the front right side of the car. The confused driver swung the car off to the shoulder then turned into one of the dirt entrances of a field and stopped the car. Ken looked around. The area was deserted.
The driver leaned over to investigate the fire. Ken opened the door, and pretended he was getting out. At the last moment he grabbed the driver’s head with his left hand, pulled it back, and slit his throat. The driver gagged and squirmed. Ken drove the knife in again and the driver stopped breathing. Ken let go of the body and it dropped sideways onto the front seat. After he stamped out the small fire and got out of the car, he pushed the driver over and got behind the wheel of the car. He drove the taxi further into the field until he was out of sight of the road, ran around the car, and dumped the driver’s body in the tall grain. He got back in the car and covered up the blood on the front seat with a coat and some paper from the dash of the car. He entered the highway and concluded his journey to La Cruz, parking the car at the far end of a quiet lot several blocks from the central square of the small city.
Ken checked over his shoulder and in the reflection in store windows several times on his walk to the city hall, looking for anybody who might have followed him or seen him leave the blood soaked car in the parking lot. He was alone. He found his brother sitting on the city hall steps, his hat pulled far down over his eyes to protect his face from the scorching sun.
“Hey, brother,” said Ken as he approached.
Eric looked startled, and then smiled when he saw it was Ken. “Hi. Everything go Okay?”
“Sure, no sweat. You?”
“Nothing to it. Now you said you had a plan. Can we get the hell out of here?”
“Sure, Eric. Walk with me and I’ll lay it out for
you.”
The brothers moved down the winding hill closing in on the glistening water below. In a small park they stood amongst some trees, studying the boats in the marina. As Ken hoped, many were for sale. Eric put on sunglasses and pulled down his hat to cover his blond hair. Since he was the expert sailor he went to the docks and walked among the boats listed for sale through a broker. Eventually he spotted a likely candidate, a boat in reasonable shape, but one that hadn’t been cleaned recently. Venezuela’s poor economy had crippled the sales of used boats but that didn’t seem to deter the owner of this particular boat. The tired for sale sign showed a price that equaled four-thousand Canadian dollars, at least twenty-five percent more than the six or eight other boats of equal value. The small office of the broker was as tired as the sign. Eric wrote down the telephone number and returned to Ken.
“Right,” Eric pointed to the boat, “that thirty-eight footer will do. Now, how do we get our hands on it?”
“Here’s what we’re going to do. More precisely, what you’re going to do using your Spanish.”
Ken explained the plan, and, also wearing a hat and sunglasses, found an Internet café. Ken pulled out his cell and called Eric. “All set here, how about you?”
“Ready. I found a vantage point just up from the marina. I have a clear view of the boat and the broker’s office.”
“Okay, lets do it. I’ll wait for your call.”
Eric dialed the number and the broker, sounding disinterested, answered. Through the background noise Eric could tell that the man was also on a cellphone, likely in a bar. So much the better.
In his smoothest Spanish dialect Eric explained he had forgotten his wife’s birthday and was in a rush to find her a gift. He told the broker his wife loved to sail and he wanted to surprise her by buying a sailboat and spending time on the water among the Venezuelan islands. The broker’s voice picked up when Eric said he walked past a boat in which he was interested because it was the same as the one he used to own in Malaga, Spain. He offered to buy it if the paperwork could be completed that day and a receipt emailed to him so he could save time and finish his business meetings. The broker said that as long as the money was transferred directly to his account it could be done. Eric negotiated the price down ten percent and gave the broker his telephone number.
Rough Business Page 18