The Informant

by James Grippando

  “You be rubbin’ me raw, bitch,” he said as he used his wet hand to bring back his erection.

  In his moment of distraction she shot up like a flash and in one quick motion grabbed the telephone and slammed it hard against his head. Her knee went up and crushed his groin. Before he could react she swung the phone again, knocking the revolver from his hand. It flew across the room and landed on the floor in front of the closet.

  He cried out in pain and tumbled off the bed with his pants around his knees. Karen was naked, kicking and screaming as she scrambled for the gun. They were swinging and grabbing at each other as they tumbled across the floor. She clawed his face with her nails, feeling his blood on her hands as she gouged at his eyes. She dove for the gun and grasped it in her hand, but in the tangled brawl he had one hand on her throat and the other on her wrist. The gun waved in every direction as she struggled to break free.

  “Drop it!” he shouted, but she bit him fiercely on the arm.

  A shot rang out in a deafening explosion. A hot burst of blood drenched her face. His limp body came crushing down on top of her with a weighty thud.

  She tried to scream, but nothing came out. With all her strength she pushed up, launching him off of her. The body landed in a contorted heap on the rug beside her. She scampered away on hands and knees to the farthest corner, as far away as possible. Her body heaved in hysterical sobs as she curled up and sat on the floor with her knees up, covering her nakedness. The gun seemed terribly heavy in her hands, but she wouldn’t let go. She watched from ten feet away in the darkness. He lay absolutely motionless. Finally, she looked away, unable to look back. Tears flowed, and she didn’t even try to stop them as she buried her face in her hands.

  Then, a strange sound cut through the silence, sending icicles down her spine. She raised her head and listened. It was a faint, fading voice.

  “Help me.”

  Her heart was quickly in her throat. With an unsteady hand she pushed a bloody strand of hair out of her eyes and peered through the darkness. Puzzled and frightened, she listened intently, until it came again—this time a little stronger.

  “Please. Help me.”

  Squinting through tears, she could see bubbles of red saliva percolating from his mouth. “Oh, my God,” she muttered. “You’re still alive….”

  A shrill noise suddenly filled the bedroom, and her heart stopped as she shot up in her bed. It was just the alarm clock. She let out a heavy sigh of relief, but she was trembling as she wiped her sweaty palms in the sheets. Exhausted, she reached across the bed and swatted the noisy alarm. Six-thirty. Time to get up. Time to go to work.

  Time to keep pretending that none of this had ever happened.

  Chapter 38

  clouds rolled in a few hours before dawn, blocking out the stars and half-moon over southeast Antigua. A warm, steady breeze kicked up a few whitecaps in the inky black waters near English Harbour. The scarred Atlantic coast, beaten by waves over the millennia, was very unlike the scalloped white sandy beaches that laced the island’s gentle Caribbean side. Jutting headlands of jagged limestone enclosed countless bays and secluded coves that smugglers had exploited for centuries.

  An armada of recreational sailboats was anchored offshore, some for the night, others for the season. Each had a rubber dinghy floating alongside or mounted up on deck to shuttle sailors to and from shore. Every kind of craft—from little one-designs to hundred-foot cruisers—rocked sleepily in the waves, flying under the flags of the United States, Great Britain, and every sailing nation in between. Windmills for electric generators on some of the decrepit old houseboats spun silently in the breeze, but all else was still. At this small hour not a sailor was in sight, so that the deserted decks and towering bare masts seemed part of a floating ghost town.

  A hundred yards offshore, Frank Hannon swam quietly toward a thirty-foot sloop, cutting through the water like a crocodile stalking its prey.

  He was nearly sixteen hours into a contingency plan that his pretty friend from the bar at the Admiral’s Inn had unwittingly helped form. Dominique had shared all kinds of details about the island—hiking, exploring, her favorite secluded spots—before he left her forever at her very favorite spot, a place so secluded that no one would ever find her.

  Minutes after having fled from the bank, he’d hopped on the back of a vegetable truck and headed out of the city back to Boggy Peak, which Dominique had told him was Antigua’s version of a tropical rain forest. He’d spent the daylight hours in the highlands, hiding on lush slopes covered in elephant ears and course fig trees, well away from the airport and harbors that would be crawling with police. At dusk he’d continued on foot toward the nautical centers in the southeast, trudging along the coast beneath the tangled limbs and thick, leafy canopy of the mangrove clusters. As a natural defense to erosion and hurricanes, the mangroves weaved land and sea together into what often seemed an impenetrable thicket. They grew right along the marshy shoreline in a foot or so of water—which meant the dogs couldn’t pick up his scent. There was no escape, however, from the swarms of mosquitoes and annoying little sand flies called “no-see-ums,” which had been bearable only because of his long pants and his long-sleeved shirt. Hunger, by comparison, had been a minor problem. Dominique had warned him about the little applelike fruit of the manchineel tree, which was deadly poisonous. The green bananas on Fig Tree Hill had proved tasty enough, far better than the tree oysters and shell-less snails clinging to the submerged roots of the mangrove trees.

  By nightfall he’d picked his spot on a hill overlooking a secluded bay, his point of departure. It was too risky to approach the ocean freighters in the commercial harbor, or the yacht clubs and deep-sea fishing charters, where the police had undoubtedly warned everyone to be on the lookout. Although he’d worn a disguise to the bank, his height and build were still distinctive. Any six foot five American trying to leave the country was bound to be a suspect. His only way off the island, he figured, was one of the hundreds of boats that had dropped anchor off the coast, away from the marinas, beyond police protection.

  Hannon swam a very controlled and quiet breaststroke as he neared the stern, making not a sound. A rear approach was best, where a ladder led to the dinghy. He grabbed the bottom rung to begin his ascent.

  The boat rocked gently in rolling waters made black by the overcast night. Halyards tapped against the mast in the light breeze, emitting an incessant hollow ping, like a squeaky box spring. Hannon climbed slowly and steadily, hand over hand, inch by inch, with the strength of a gymnast on the rings spreading into an iron cross. He kept silent as fog, realizing that one kick to the hull or bang of the ladder would thump like a drum inside the cabin. It would surely wake the owner—who probably owned a gun.

  One leg went over the polished teak rail, then the other. In complete silence he was a mere shadow on board. He crouched into a ball toward the aft of the cockpit. Looking straight ahead, he could see down into the main cabin. The companionway door had been left wide open for ventilation. It was dark below, but he could make out the stove in the galley and an empty starboard berth. The portside berth looked lumpy, occupied. When he closed his ears to the surf he could even hear breathing. Snoring. The lonely captain was asleep.

  Hannon clutched the long fish filet knife he’d stolen from behind the back of the fisherman at the pier and moved quietly toward the open cabin door.

  The adrenaline flowed faster with each step forward. He knew exactly what was going to happen, just as he had with all the others. He never attacked without mapping it out first, seeing it through to the bloody end in his world of fantasy, pursuing his dream of the perfect crime. For the first time ever, this was nearly as titillating as the fantasy. I am perfection.

  Hannon leaned over him as he slept, waiting for him to sense the intrusion. With a wrinkled sheet pulled up around his neck, the man had the weathered look of a salty old sailor. A scraggly two-day growth of whiskers covered his pudgy face. Hannon brought the knife t
o his fleshy nose and tickled the little hairs in his nostrils, smirking with sadistic amusement as the man shooed away imaginary gnats in his sleep. He dragged the blade lightly across his lips and paused, as if considering his next move. With a quick jab he poked him in the cheek.

  “Oww! What the hell!”

  Hannon grabbed him by the throat and shoved the knife before his eyes. “Flinch and you die.”

  He blinked hard, not fully comprehending. His whole body shook as it became frightfully clear that this was real, not a nightmare. The eyes bulged with each desperate gasp for air.

  “Whatever you want,” his voice trembled. “Take it.”

  Hannon pressed the blade against his cheek, then spoke in a low, threatening whisper. “I want to see Puerto Rico. And I want you to take me.”

  The layover in San Juan had been longer than expected, making Mike’s flight from Miami a tiring nine hours. The plane touched down at Bird International Airport just a few minutes before 10:00 A.M. Mike had only an overnight carry-on bag with him, so he went straight to customs and immigration. He queued up in the longer line, since the guy at the end of the short one looked like he might be carrying a bazooka in his bag and would probably hold things up.

  The customs and immigration officers wore dark blue uniforms with military-style caps. One sat behind a counter, checking documentation. Another stood at the end of the conveyor, visually inspecting baggage, but he’d yet to open a single suitcase. Given the lax security, the line seemed to be moving very slowly. When Mike’s turn finally came, he slipped his passport across the countertop.

  The young black woman in uniform checked the photograph, then looked up at Mike. He smiled awkwardly, then glanced casually at the other officer at the end of the conveyor. He showed no expression. Mike glanced back at the woman behind the counter, who was now reviewing a computer printout. Undoubtedly that was the reason things were moving so slowly. Some kind of fugitive list, he presumed. With the murder at the Antigua bank just twenty-four hours old, border control couldn’t be too careful.

  Finally, she looked up. Mike smiled, expecting his passport back. She didn’t return the smile or the passport. “Can you come with me, please?” she said matter-of-factly.

  He was momentarily stunned. “I’m sorry. What’s the problem?”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Come with me, please,” she said more sternly.

  Suspicious glares came from the others in line. The old woman right behind took a gigantic step back, making it clear they weren’t together. He didn’t want a scene. “All right,” he said with a shrug. “Let’s go clear this up.”

  She called over two other officers—two big guys with barrel chests, thick necks, and impressive sidearms in their holsters. The three of them—one behind him and one at each side—escorted him down a sterile hallway with a polished cement floor, bright fluorescent lights, and no doors or windows. Their footsteps echoed against the bare walls.

  “Do you mind telling me what this is all about?” asked Mike.

  No one replied. They turned the corner, then stopped at a door at the end of the hall. The woman took a key from her belt and unlocked the door. She pushed it open, then pointed inside with a jerk of her head. “This way, please.”

  He chuckled nervously. “What’s this, the interrogation room?”

  “Yes,” she said flatly.

  His forced smile faded. “Look, Officer. I don’t want to make trouble, but I really don’t see what right you have to detain me. Am I being arrested?”

  “That’s up to the police. They’ll be here any minute. In the meantime, I suggest you sit down and cooperate.”

  He glanced at all three of the stone-faced guards. “Can I make a phone call first?”

  “Later,” she said.

  The biggest guard took a half-step forward, as if telling him that it was time either to walk into the room or be thrown into it. He sighed with resignation as he passed through the doorway. The door closed behind him, and the keys tinkled on the outside, locking him inside.

  “Welcome to Antigua,” he said to himself, alone in the room.

  Chapter 39

  two hours passed before the door finally opened. In the open doorway stood a well-groomed man wearing a navy blue blazer, gray slacks, and a Scotch-plaid tie that seemed to draw out the red freckles on his black skin. Like many Antiguans, his family tree had both African and Anglo-Saxon limbs. He was much shorter than Mike and probably twenty years older, pushing sixty. He reached inside his breast pocket and flashed his badge. “Detective James Dewberry,” he said in an English colonial island accent. “Antigua Police—Homicide.”

  Mike’s heart raced, but he said nothing. Dewberry took the metal folding chair on the other side of the rectangular table, facing him. He pulled a small spiral pad from his breast pocket and clicked his pen.

  “Tell me, Mr. Posten, what brings you all the way to Antigua?”

  “I hear the diving’s terrific.”

  He nodded slowly. “It is. We take it very seriously down here. Almost as seriously as homicide.” His expression soured. “Two security guards were murdered yesterday morning in the Charter Bank of Antigua. We have reason to believe you have information that may lead us to the killer.”

  Mike suddenly found himself wondering about their tongues, but he didn’t want to ask the kind of question that would reveal how much he knew. “Me? Why me?”

  “Have you ever heard the name Eric Venters?”

  “Never.”

  “Surely you’ve heard the name Ernest Gill.”

  Mike fell silent.

  Dewberry scooted forward to the edge of the couch. “Allow me to explain something before we get tangled up in the usual dance. We know that someone using the name Eric Venters—we’re certain it’s an alias—opened an account at the Charter Bank in St. Johns. He arrived yesterday morning to close the account and withdraw the funds. Nearly a quarter million U.S. dollars. Of course, a bank like the Charter Bank doesn’t keep that kind of money on the premises. Normally, customers call in advance to make an appointment, so that the money is waiting for them when they arrive. Either Mr. Venters didn’t know that or, more likely, he simply didn’t want to give anyone advance notice of his arrival. The bank officer did his level best to get the money to him as quickly as possible from the central bank. As best we can gather from our witnesses, the phone calls and apparent delay made him very suspicious. When the security guards finally arrived with the funds, he evidently mistook them for police officers, smelled an ambush and opened fire. Two of them ended up dead.”

  Mike sighed and shook his head. “I’m very sorry to hear that.”

  “I suspect you’ll be even be sorrier to hear that by murdering the guards, Mr. Venters created a legal basis for the police to pierce bank secrecy.”

  “I’m not sure I follow you.”

  “In Antigua, bank secrecy is absolutely inviolable except when the authorities are investigating conduct that constitutes a crime under Antiguan law. Tax evasion, money laundering—those aren’t crimes in Antigua. Homicide, of course, is.”

  “So, because of the murders, you’ve been able to trace the funds.”

  “All the way back to a gent named Ernest Gill. And ultimately to you. That’s how the immigration officials had your name on their list, right along with Ernest Gill and Eric Venters.”

  Mike nodded, understanding. “What do you intend to do with me?”

  He leaned back in his chair. “I’m not going to put bamboo shoots under your fingernails, if that’s what you’re wondering. Antigua, after all, is a very civilized country. You seem very civil for an American. I’m hoping you’ll come back to the station with me on a voluntary basis to talk to our lieutenant. We’d also like you to look at the composite sketch of the killer we’ve created from the witnesses at the bank. And,” he said firmly, “we’d very much like you to submit to a polygraph examination.”

  “And what if I don’t feel like cooperating?”

  “That
would be a bloody shame. I feel as though I’ve been very forthcoming, and I was hoping we could conduct ourselves like gentlemen. Like I said: I can’t force you to talk to us. But by the same token, you can’t force us to keep word of your involvement to ourselves, either.”

  “What are you implying?”

  His voice grew lower, more serious. “Let there be no doubt that you will have to explain why the man who murdered two security guards in an Antiguan bank was in the process of withdrawing two hundred and fifty thousand American dollars that can be traced directly back to you. You can come with me to the station and explain it quite privately to our investigators on the case. Or you can get on an airplane and explain it to your colleagues in the American press—who, I’m sure, would be most interested to know that I have a quite remarkable follow-up to your latest professional embarrassment concerning payments to informants.”

  Mike felt a dryness in his throat, remembering how Aaron Fields had bailed out before at the first sign of bad publicity. He stared back at the smug detective, waiting for him to blink, to show some sign of bluffing. It didn’t come.

  “All right,” he said without heart. “I’ll go with you.”

  Dewberry smiled for the first time, albeit faintly. “I knew you’d make the right choice.”

  “I didn’t know I had one,” Mike said as he started for the door.

  A squad car was waiting at the curb outside the airport with a stiff, uniformed cop behind the wheel on the English side. Mike and the detective piled into the backseat. The tiny blue-and-white sedan merged quickly into traffic, and Mike was struggling for legroom when he caught a glimpse of his own reflection in the driver’s-side mirror. His hair was flat, and he needed a shave. He looked tired, like a man who hadn’t slept in forty-one hours. Or was it forty-two? He set his watch ahead one hour to 1:00 P.M., local time, as they dodged the potholes on the road from the airport.