Titan Trilogy 3.5-Black Soul

by T. J. Brearton

  “But then there’s Sterling,” she said, taking a seat across from him. “We don’t know anything about him.”

  William pulled the black storage drive out of the case and plugged it into Hanna’s MacBook Air. “We might in a minute.” He took the printed-out email and set it next to the computer, looking at Sterling’s email address. After he followed the prompts for a series of passwords, he was in the database, and used Sterling’s email along with his name to search the program Lazard’s people had set up.

  “Will, they’re waiting for us.”

  “Hold on . . .”

  There was a hit. Arnold Sterling. Dayton, Ohio. “Well, he’s got some money. Net worth is around eighteen million. Works for a company called Provost Petroleum where he does credit analysis. He’s got a fairly diverse portfolio . . . he’s a shareholder, but I don’t see all of his holdings here. Maybe we need an update from Lazard.” William looked up at Hanna. “I feel like Sterling hasn’t gotten along with his daughter for a while. She’s backpacking Central America, decides to stay in Roatán. Says, ‘screw you, Dad.’ Maybe quits social media to spite him.”

  “Did you see Isabella?”

  William took a sip of his water. “Yeah . . .”

  “Something obviously happened to her. She’s the real deal. She’s Honduran, she was victimized somehow.”

  William nodded, then said, “I think Sterling chose to crash that convention out of desperation. He’s not trying to bring attention to a global crisis, necessarily, he’s just trying to get his daughter back. I’m just not sure what to make of the email . . .”

  He grabbed the copy and read it again.

  Dad,

  Sorry for the other night. I know you mean well, but don’t worry about school. I already have enough to graduate and can finish in the summer. I’ve met some good people down here — my friend Deon, and even a girl from the States. She doesn’t like diving though, lol. I don’t want you to send any money. I’m doing this on my own. Some of the people I’ve met are doing some work locally. I’m going to check it out. I may be down here a bit longer. I know that’s hard for you, but please understand it’s what I want. Love you, R.

  William pushed it aside. “She’s a victim of trafficking because she talks about some kid named Deon? Because Deon supposedly has a record?”

  “Well, that and she says ‘doing some work locally.’”

  “It’s a stretch. Or there’s something Sterling knows we don’t.”

  Hanna didn’t argue. She gazed out the open patio and there was a knock on the door. “Come in,” she called.

  Cohen entered, giving them an apologetic smile, but clearly anxious. “Sorry for the interruption.” He approached the sitting area. “I see you got some water to drink, good . . . Now if we can . . .”

  “Mr. Cohen,” Hanna began.

  But he was already dipping his head, waving his hands. “I know, I know. Things have just been happening very quickly. I run a resort, you know? I have a lot of guests. But, Mr. Sterling will pay you. I have a retainer for you, in cash. He—”

  William broke in. “Why wouldn’t this just go through the PJP? We’ve worked with them before. I’m sure Reznikov told you.”

  Cohen nodded. “Of course. The PJP is monitoring, willing to help, but this is a direct hire to search for a missing person, not something the PJP does here.”

  “Understood. So, let me ask you — do you think his daughter was taken?”

  “She could just be living her life,” Hanna added. “Maybe she just doesn’t want to talk to her father.”

  Cohen shook his head. “You don’t know what it’s like here . . .”

  Hanna got up from the couch. “I do know.”

  Cohen gave her a look. “Ms. Becket, you’re a foreigner, an American. Americans don’t tend to pay attention to what’s going on in the world. Unless it affects oil prices.”

  There was an edge to Hanna’s affable smile. “I know that the US State Department updated its travel warning for Honduras and that members of the Honduran National Police are known to engage in criminal activity. I know that only three of the sixty murders committed against U.S. citizens since 2008 have been solved. That’s not a great clear-up rate. But it’s also not an indication that Rene is being trafficked. We’ll look for her, Mr. Cohen. But if we find she’s just living her life, we’re going to honor her right to do so.”

  Cohen looked grateful, despite Hanna’s hard line. But then his expression changed. “With all due respect, Mr. Chase, Ms. Becket, you came here because you needed an out.” He looked at the bandages on William’s face.

  After William stared back for a second, Cohen turned away.

  “Just give us two more minutes,” Hanna said. “Could you do that for us, Mr. Cohen?”

  He turned to her with a flat expression. William saw sweat run down the side of the man’s pock-marked face. Marshal Cohen was under pressure.

  Finally, Cohen smiled and made a slight nod. “Of course.”

  He left them alone. Hanna rubbed her hand over the counter, looked around, then at William. “What do you think?”

  “I think he’s got a point: it got us out of Russia.”

  She grimaced. “You know that’s not good enough. We’re either in it or we’re not.”

  He knew she was right. And he hadn’t gotten to Alkaev, something that continued to bother him constantly. Maybe they could do some good here.

  “We’re in it,” he said.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  They shook hands with a relieved Sterling. William thought Isabella had a glint in her eye. But she soon departed, citing other obligations. Sterling said something vague about keeping appointments, too. He promised he would meet with William and Hanna for dinner that evening and also left.

  The first thing they needed was a car. Cohen implored them to let Mateo drive instead — and serve as a guide — for at least the first day. It seemed reasonable enough, William and Hanna could get the lay of the land before striking out on their own.

  They sat together in the backseat. Hanna balanced the MacBook on her lap while William looked out the window, his stomach grumbling. They hadn’t eaten much besides terrible airline food for almost two days. On an empty stomach, all he could think about was taking Alkaev by the neck and choking him to death.

  “Sterling is right about Rene not having any sort of online presence, not that I’ve found,” Hanna said. “But listen to this: Roatán has a crime-watch Facebook group.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Started a few years ago after a wave of high-profile crimes. There are over two thousand members. They report all kinds of robberies — like this one: an armed bandit — their words — fired a shot at an American family visiting for the day on the Paradise Conquest cruise. He robbed them in broad daylight near the Palm Beach Resort.”

  “Fun.”

  She scowled but ignored the remark. “And, this is interesting: the great-granddaughter of a major food company heiress was stabbed to death in her luxury spa, recently. A local singer was charged with the murder.”

  He grunted.

  Hanna turned to him. “You’re hungry.”

  Another grunt.

  They stopped at an open-air eatery called Jenny’s Lusty Lizard where Hanna ordered a red snapper plate with pineapple, plantains, and red beans with rice. William had the same. The restaurant offered a view of Mahogany Bay, where a shipwreck stuck half out of the water.

  Mateo was having a drink at the bar. Feeling whole again, William did some people watching. The restaurant was a mix of white northerners and local people, in all shades. Two dreadlocked men in colorful garb sat near Mateo. A wall-mounted TV showed what looked like protests on the mainland. The news program was captioned in Spanish, the sound down. William recognized the city names San Pedro Sula and Tegucigalpa. Then the bartender changed the channel to a soccer game.

  A woman nearby snapped her fingers, catching William’s attention. Two men near Mateo went over to her.r />
  She was young, maybe only twenty-five. Caucasian, with pretty features, wearing a breezy white tunic, shorts, sandals. Her hair was in a ponytail, strands clinging to her face in the humid atmosphere. She spoke to the two Rastafarian-looking men, and then her eyes caught William’s from across the room.

  He looked away, waited, then glanced back as the two men left the restaurant. She stayed, speaking to the bartender. Something about her was alluring. She seemed like a woman in charge. He watched as she flashed brilliant white teeth in a smile, clapped the bartender on the shoulder, and threw back a shot. She walked out.

  Life on Roatán, William thought.

  “So according to Tommy,” he said, “this friend of Rene’s, she was last seen the night after a dive, hanging out with Deon. Tommy says Deon’s ethnicity was Garifuna, like Mateo.”

  “She’s the only girl in that scuba photo,” Hanna mused. “Her and four guys. And then this Frederick kid, on the scooter, her maybe-boyfriend, he’s dead. But she likes hanging out with the boys. So she’s with this Deon. It doesn’t mean anything.”

  “It’s a start. If he’s still on the island.” William could see the edge of the restaurant’s dirt parking lot. He caught a glimpse of the pretty woman getting into a small tan car.

  “What if one of these other kids is still here?” Hanna asked. “Sterling was only able to reach one of them.”

  “He doesn’t know any of the others.”

  “Right. Neither do we . . .” She stared off at the shipwreck, rubbing her lips with her fingertips. Her face was beaded with perspiration. She had on a simple light brown tank top, a pair of shorts, lots of leg showing. William found himself remembering their time together. The last time, in particular. The way she felt to him. Like home.

  “So that’s where we start,” Hanna said. Her eyes glittered like jewels in the flat light beneath the canopied restaurant. “Agreed? Last place she was seen. Diving.”

  “There’s probably a dozen dive spots on the island.”

  “Then we ask Mateo. You see his diving watch? He’s an enthusiast.”

  William shook his head. “The less people know what we’re doing, the better.”

  “How are we going to look for someone without asking around a little?”

  He looked at her a moment longer, falling into those eyes. Then he grabbed the photo and stood up. As he crossed toward the bar, Mateo gave him an expectant look. William twirled his finger in the air and Mateo nodded, gulped his drink, and left to bring the car around.

  With Mateo gone, William got the attention of the bartender, an older, dark-skinned woman. He showed her the picture.

  “Do you know where this is? Where this boat might be?”

  She studied it for a moment, drying her hands with a towel. Then she nodded towards the outside and pointed. “That’s probably down the hill. It’s called Ship Divers.”

  * * *

  They drove along the main road, Carretera Principal. They were closer to the shipwreck, a rusted iron mass halfway out of the water. Another vessel was docked nearby, resembling a Hollywood pirate ship, with two tall masts, its sails down.

  “Mateo,” Hanna asked, “where are you from?”

  “I was born on Utila. No hospital there, I was born at home. My family is from the Garifuna tribe.”

  What little William knew about the region was that Honduras was a mix of backgrounds and cultures. The largest ethnic group in the country were descended from Indians and Spanish, Mateo explained. The islands were once predominantly black, like Mateo, a mixture of West African, Central African, and Island Carib.

  “And where are you from?” asked Mateo, finding William’s eyes in the rear view mirror. William traded looks with Hanna. “Rockland County,” she answered. “In New York State.”

  “And sir?”

  William didn’t like to give out these details. But he decided if he was sharing a bit of his personal profile, staying close to the truth was best. “I was born in Hawthorne, in New York State.”

  “New Yawkers,” Mateo chuckled.

  William gazed out the open window. The breeze tasted salty. They passed a grove of mango trees, and he saw crabs climbing towards the fruit. Tourists could take a chair lift over the bay, and cables tugged people along, their legs swinging fifty feet above the ground and water.

  “Roatán has a population of fifty, sixty thousand?” he asked.

  “Sixty-five thousand.” Mateo pronounced the word towsend. “But with the tourists, it is much greater. Right now, the rainy season is coming. There will be not as many then.”

  “I thought the rainy season was October to February?”

  “That is the winter rainy season. In summer we have the rains come in June and July. Sometimes early as May. It is very muggy, very hot then.”

  William couldn’t imagine it much hotter and muggier than now.

  Mateo made a turn onto Mahogany Road. A sign declared: “Dixon Cove.” The sunken ship was dead ahead. To one side were shops with paved walkways. To the other, a footbridge spanned an unbelievable blue cove.

  They parked in a small lot. Ship Divers, LLC was written over the front door of one of the buildings.

  This diving spot was possibly the last place Rene Sterling had been photographed, ten days ago.

  Ten days, thought William, getting out of the air-conditioned car and stepping into the blasting sun. Ten days was a long time. An eternity in a missing person’s case. The chances of finding the subject dropped significantly after the first forty-eight hours. By ten days, it amounted to a fool’s errand. What was lost was lost, swallowed up by the world.

  Hanna and William stood admiring the view of the cove, the sun sparkling on the cresting waves. William shielded his eyes in the brightness, looking at the shipwreck sticking out of the water next to a small horseshoe-shaped island.

  “That’s Magdalena’s Paradise,” said a blonde man approaching. Tanned and shirtless, his muscles toned, wearing a short wetsuit with the top half hanging down over his butt. “Some of the best diving in the world.”

  The man stuck out his hand. “I’m Jodi Penninger.” He spoke with a slight German accent.

  William shook his hand and nodded toward the building. “This your business?”

  “Yeah, oh yeah. Founded it in 1993 with my late wife, Maryanne. Wow, it’s been a long time. Now, it’s me and a small team of really skilled divers. I built it from two complete sets of equipment into ten, we’ve got compressor rooms, a teaching room, even a charging station for lamps and cameras.”

  It sounded like the pitch from the guy’s brochure. William imagined how many times Penninger had given it to tourists.

  “Very nice,” William said. “We’re with Samaritan’s Purse.”

  Penninger’s bright white smile faded.

  “We’re actually helping a friend search for his daughter,” Hanna said. “Mind if we look around, maybe ask you a few questions?”

  Penninger turned his wary gaze from William to Hanna. He seemed to lighten up again when he looked at her. “Sure, of course. Come on in.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  It was cooler in the building, but not much. The windows were open and fans were blowing, but there was no A/C. William lingered by a rack of sunglasses and looked around.

  The room was filled with scuba gear: tanks, breathing regulators, weights, vests, and other basic accessories. He also saw small nets, and mounted against the back wall, an array of spear guns. A sign on the wall said: SSI, Scuba Schools International. Another read: Enriched Air: NITROX.

  “Police were here a week ago, asking questions,” Penninger said. He slipped behind a glass-case counter with a cash register. “So she was never found, huh? I assume you’re looking for the same girl . . .”

  “We are, yes,” Hanna said. “Rene Sterling. She took instruction from you, or one of your diving instructors a couple weeks ago, is that right?”

  “Yes, that’s right. Here.” Penninger brought something up from behind t
he counter.

  William approached and bent over the log book.

  “Everyone signs in, of course,” Penninger said. “I also have her waiver. I keep all the waivers in a big binder in the back. But this is just a sign-in before a dive begins. You know, everyone is accounted for; we do a head count before we get in the boat and head out, we do another one just before the dive, one after the dive, and then once the boat gets back to the docks.”

  “So, four counts,” William said.

  Hanna gave him a look. But Penninger seemed pleased, “Yeah, that’s right. Absolutely. Four counts for every dive. We’re very careful. I’ve been doing this since . . .”

  “Ninety-three,” William said.

  “That’s right,” said Penninger, losing some poise.

  “That’s your office back there?”

  “Yeah, that’s where I pay my respects to the Man.” He smiled wanly. William wondered if the surfer-dude shtick worked on the tourists. He also wondered why he was feeling so cynical. This place was absolute paradise. Maybe paradise made him uncomfortable.

  “Can you give us a tour?”

  Penninger had pushed his sunglasses up onto his head, revealing the lines shaping his eyes. Despite the surf-boy vibe, he was pushing fifty, William thought. Beneath his blonde, shaggy hair were streaks of grey. If he’d been doing this for over twenty years, he was used to all sorts of scams and trickery.

  “Uhm, yeah, of course, but I mean . . . who are you two? I know you’re looking for someone, but I don’t let just anyone go digging through my stuff, you know?” It seemed to pain him to put up even the slightest resistance, though he was now bluntly staring at William’s small facial bandages.

  William looked through for Mateo, who was standing by the car, smoking. “See that gentleman right there? He works for Marshal Cohen, who owns the Grand Roatán Resort.”

  “Yeah, sure, I know Marshal.” It only seemed to add to Penninger’s trepidation.