I imagined that’s how I would have structured the blackmail as well. It would appear much more believable if the two people being manipulated appeared to be working independently. If they knew about one another that was not only an additional complicating factor but created the possibility that they might somehow collaborate against me. Not that I’d ever do such a thing, but it was a pretty good scheme. I played off the weaknesses of others, too, but never in a way where someone would be driven to blow their own brains out during a hostage situation. I just wanted to build things.
“I can’t believe Mariana did all this,” Madison said, shaking her head sadly, “I really thought she was a good person.”
“I think she is a good person,” McKinney said, surprising us both. “Once she was in custody, she told us everything. She was being monitored in her hotel room, and it seems that she was the person that made the initial tip off call about the Chacóns to the authorities. Without her tip, we might have never known they were behind any of this. She was only doing what she had to do to ensure the safety of her own family. I think she was also the one who convinced Marco that it would be possible for him to blackmail Frank and Luisa. He wanted to try another car bomb or something else violent. She convinced him that this would work better. Now that the whole scheme has failed, she’s got a price on her head. She’ll probably have to go into hiding.”
Madison looked both shocked and relieved. I would never forgive Mariana for what she did, but I could tell that Madison already did. It was probably for the best that Mariana would have to go into hiding forever.
“Can I contact her?” Madison asked hopefully. Knowing her, she probably wanted to apologize.
“Not right now,” McKinney said, “but you will be able to eventually. I’ll let you know. We have a lot of work to do first.”
Madison nodded, resigned.
“There’s something that’s been bothering me,” I said, changing the subject from Mariana before my blood pressure got out of control, “where did Frank get the gun?”
McKinney smirked.
“That’s what we’ve been trying to figure out, too,” McKinney said, “it really doesn’t make a lot of sense. Obviously, he didn’t bring it into the country since he flew to the US through regular airlines. He also didn’t receive any packages at his hotel room, nor was he almost ever out of the presence of the rest of the group.”
“Can you tell if it’s an American gun or a Colombian one?” I asked.
McKinney shook his head ruefully, “No. I wish the CSI stuff was real where you just type in a serial number and trace the gun to its owner, but we actually have no searchable database of firearms in this country. It may take months to track the gun. We may never figure it out. That was actually one of the reasons I stopped by.”
“To ask if either of us gave Frank a gun?” I asked incredulously.
Why the hell would we do that? There was no way Madison would ever go near a firearm. And I’m a felon. It would be illegal for me to own a gun, not that I’d want one. To be honest, I would be worried that I’d accidentally shoot my face off. Guns were in the same category of terrible hobbies as skiing. The only exception I made to that rule was my motorcycle. Everything in moderation. Even moderation.
“No.” McKinney replied, “To ask if you know Senator Ellis’s daughter, a woman named Angelica Hunt. We checked the security cameras from the Waterloo Country Club on the day that group visited, and it seems she was quite close to Frank on the green that day.”
“Angelica gave Frank a gun?” Madison asked in shock and consternation, “That seems stupid and irresponsible, even for her.”
“So, you do know her?”
Madison and I exchanged a look.
“Yes,” I answered for both of us, “we’ve both known her our entire lives. Neither of us is close with her. You’d be better off asking the Senator or her sister Clara for information. I’m fairly certain she was sleeping with Frank, but I sincerely doubt she gave him the gun.”
McKinney whipped out his little notebook and wrote down Clara’s name.
“It’s probably nothing,” McKinney said, “but there is a forty-minute gap where they both disappeared in the security footage. The next time they show up its together, just outside the hallway leading to the men’s restroom. That’s why I’m asking.”
Madison choked and coughed into her coffee.
“Yeah,” Madison said finally after she could breathe again, “I think you should definitely pay Angelica a visit. I’m sure she’ll be happy to explain what went on in that men’s room. She likes older men, if you know what I mean. Her husband is ninety. She also likes infidelity in bathrooms and men with oil fortunes. It’s a well-documented fact. Have a blast talking to her.”
Was I imagining it or did McKinney look a bit pained? I did not envy the man his job.
“Yes, well we did find a few explicit text messages between them, it seems Frank had promised to leave his wife for her. I still have to follow up and investigate the gun though. Well thanks for your time,” McKinney said finally, looking like he was unexcited to pay a visit to Mrs. Hunt, “I don’t want to take up any more of it.”
Madison seemed lost in thought. She was probably considering how much she hated Angelica. Angelica’s scheming self-interest was really getting out of hand.
“Thanks for coming by,” I replied, rising with Madison to shake hands and see him out, “but call first next time, okay?”
McKinney smirked.
“Hopefully there won’t be a next time,” McKinney replied.
I couldn’t agree more.
“Is it shower time now?” Madison asked hopefully once we were alone again.
I picked her up and carried her to the bathroom in reply.
46
Epilogue Madison
I didn’t want to, but I had to break Alexander’s heart.
“There is no HBO in Haiti,” I explained to him, “they don’t even have Netflix.”
“What about Hulu?” He looked totally horrified. You’d have thought I just told him they didn’t have toilet paper.
“Nope.”
“Anything else I should know?” Alexander asked, trying to maintain a stoic expression as the plane taxied off the Miami runway. It felt beyond bizarre to be taking a private jet to Port-au-Prince, but Alexander said that commercial flights didn’t have enough legroom, so they hurt his knees, and he was broad-shouldered and… ok, mostly because I didn’t want to fight with him about it.
The secret truth is that I loved the plane. It was just cool. I’d never been an enormous creature comfort-loving person, but I’m only human. There’s only so much temptation I can handle without becoming spoiled, and Alexander was very good at providing temptation. Yes, the carbon footprint of the plane was huge, and yes, we could have flown commercial and still gotten there safely, but Alexander and I were still finding the balance between our wildly conflicting ideas of what was ‘normal’. The air travel thing was one battle I’d never win. Mostly, because I didn’t want to. I also liked flying without the usual crew so we could regularly renew our membership to the mile high club.
“You read the books I gave you, right?” I asked him. He rolled his eyes.
“Yes, dear,” he replied, and I gently smacked his leg with the back of my hand. We’d quickly become the sort of couple that happily ribs each other mercilessly. He grinned at me.
“But really,” he pushed, “what should I know that isn’t in those books? I can read lots of books that outline the difference between my crappy French and Haitian Creole, but at the end of the day, I need the important stuff. The essential truths. Like whether or not they have proper soda.”
I giggled. Proper sodas, to Alexander, meant full-sugar Coca-Cola products. He was an addict and a snob. “Yes, Alexander,” I said condescendingly, “they have Coke. Not everywhere, mind you. But it can be found if you make an effort.”
“Thank god,” he replied with genuine relief, “What else?”
“Ok. Let’s see… If a total stranger comes up to you and says to you ‘give me your shirt’, what should you reply?”
“Are you testing to see if I did my assigned reading?” he asked, raising an eyebrow at me. We both loved a challenge.
“Maybe. What’s the answer?”
“I should treat it as a compliment, but then ask for something of theirs in return that I like. It becomes a game where the objective is to be clever.”
“Very good!” I said, leaning over from my chair to give him a chaste kiss. Then I giggled at his proud expression. He actually had been very studious in preparation for this move. He was a planner. “I’m impressed. Do you want another one?”
“Sure. I did all my homework.”
“Is that right? Then you’ll know this one. If you get pulled over on your motorcycle and the police officer says you have a broken taillight and you can either pay your ticket by mail for eight-five or pay it in cash for sixty, what should you do?”
“The cash price isn’t actually a ticket, it’s a bribe,” he replied, “so I should say that I don’t have any cash on me. Half the time the cop will just drive off since it’s not worth the paperwork. Otherwise I have to mail in the fine.”
“Wow, you’re doing so well!” I gave him another, longer kiss for his correct answer, teasing his tongue with my own for a long moment. When I pulled away he unbuckled me from my chair and pulled me into his lap. I happily settled into him.
“I try. Got any others?” Alexander replied, still beaming with pride.
He started pulling my blouse up and I smacked his hand away with an arch look.
“Excuse you,” I said haughtily, “this examination’s not over yet. How about this. We know that French is the official language of Haiti. How do you know when it’s appropriate to speak French and not Creole?”
The one took him a bit longer. He folded his hands in front of him the way he always did when he was thinking. Finally, he replied, “Tricky. Well, only five percent of the very most elite people in Haiti are actually fluent in French, but almost all people will say they speak French because it’s very culturally inappropriate to admit being part of the lower class. It’s sort of like asking if a person has a toilet in their house in the US. You’d probably be embarrassed to admit it if you didn’t. And you wouldn’t ask an obviously upper-class person if they spoke French because you would already be speaking French with them. Upper class people universally speak Creole too, but they wouldn’t initiate or continue a conversation with a foreigner they thought might speak French in Creole. Therefore, it’s basically never appropriate to initiate a conversation in French, but it’s fine to respond that way.”
“You’re so impressive!” I gushed, moving to straddle him in the cushy reclining chair. He pulled me closer to him and cupped my rear with both his hands.
“What’s my reward for having passed your test?” Alexander asked me in a husky voice, abandoning my butt momentarily to running his hands up my shirt and along my ribcage. His light touch made me shiver delightfully. I hoped this giddy feeling of anticipation would never go away when Alexander touched me. After four months of being together, it was still as strong as the first time we’d touched.
“I don’t know,” I answered innocently, “what sort of reward do you want?”
“I think it’s only fair to turn the tables. I think it’s your turn to take the test,” he replied. He grinned at me mischievously, “what is the appropriate reply if I tell you to give me your shirt?”
“You didn’t say the magic word!” I answered, and then attempted to maintain my indignant face and not to giggle as he peeled it off of me anyway, then snatched off my bra.
“Oh dear,” he said with mock seriousness and a smoldering expression, “that was the wrong answer. You’ve failed the test. Whatever will we do with you?”
47
Epilogue Alexander
I loved Port-au-Prince. The city rose out from the ocean between the beach and the mountains, carving out a colorful, vibrant microcosm of French-African-Caribbean-American-ness that existed nowhere else. People in the US often think of Haiti as a miserable place full of people that need saving, but the reality is so much more complicated. No one should deny the problems that faced Haiti: disease and nutrition challenges, chronic governmental corruption, and the long-term cultural and economic scars of slavery and imperialism. But it didn’t need saving.
Haiti needed the rest of the world to exhibit the compassion and cooperation for it to improve and ultimately save itself. After two months in Haiti with Madison, I was beginning to understand. I was well on my way to becoming as much of a bleeding heart as Madison, which terrified me when it didn’t inspire me. I was just too happy to resist.
“Ask him, I bet he knows,” I heard a middle-aged white woman sitting at the table next to me in the coffee shop saying in English.
“Excuse me, sir?” Her companion asked me.
“Yes?” I replied, taking off my sunglasses to be polite and wondering what they wanted. Madison had texted she was going to be fifteen minutes late, and now strangers were talking to me. The politeness wouldn’t last long, so I hoped he’d get to the point quickly.
“Oh, thank god, you’re American,” the man said, “I’m from Ohio, doing a stint with Doctors Without Borders. How about you?”
“Pennsylvania. My name’s Alexander. Can I help you with something?” I shook the man’s hand but was ready for this conversation to end.
“I’m Paul. Pleased to meet you. I hope so. Do you know if either of those two are Americans?” The guy asked, pointing at the old bulky television playing in the corner of the tiny coffee shop.
I followed his gaze. There was some local news program playing. It was in Creole, so I wasn’t surprised that poor Paul couldn’t make much out. I was still struggling hard with the dialect. I’d not realized how different it was from French. At first it sounded like people speaking French with their mouths stuffed with bubble gum. I was improving, but it would be a long time before I was fluent.
Luckily for both me and Paul, the story he was referring to had pictures. I watched for a second before my mouth dropped open in surprise. Boy, did it ever have pictures.
The story was about an international scandal that had just hit surrounding a joint mission to the international space station. One of the US astronauts and one of the Russian cosmonauts had broken with protocol and got conjugal up in orbit. It probably all could have been hushed up, but somehow the footage got leaked to the media.
The private parts of the two individuals were blurred out in the leaked video being played on Haitian television, which is too bad because boobs must look fantastic in zero-g, but they appeared to be really going at it. Sex in space looked challenging… and vaguely acrobatic. I was contemplating the physics of it all when I remembered that Paul was still waiting for an answer.
“Yeah,” I replied, amazed, “looks like the man is an American and the woman is a Russian.”
“They just keep repeating this same story on every channel. It’s been playing nonstop all day.”
As they cycle through clips of the footage, I catch a name.
Major Nathan Breyer.
Holy shit.
There, on Haitian television was an official-looking photo of Major Nathan Breyer of the United States Air Force in uniform on one side of the screen, while they continued to play the video of him going at it with a very attractive Russian lady on the other.
My cousin was in so much trouble.
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Bleeding Heart (Scions of Sin Book 1) Page 25