‘Did Lambert make her?’ I said.
‘No. This Laura is good. Very professional. Too professional.’ Her eyes had become a little jumpy, shuttling between the two of us.
‘Where did Laura latch on to him?’ I asked.
‘As he came out of an office on Bay Street, not far from here, further west, though.’
‘Nearer the Beachcomber, where Laura’s booked in?’ I suggested.
‘No more than two hundred yards away, yeah.’
‘What kind of office?’ said Sarah, squinting inquisitively.
‘A trading company.’
‘Trading in what?’ I said.
‘Imports and exports; well, that’s what it says on the brass.’
‘But what products?’ I pressed, frustration pluming.
‘Doesn’t say. It’s probably just a front for a scam; most of the companies here aren’t legit. Could easily be a drug-trafficking outfit.’
‘What’s the name of the company?’ Sarah enquired.
Carla referred to her file. ‘Clint, Wood and East, Inc.’
‘Not very clever,’ I said. ‘Switch the last two words, apart from Inc, and you have Clint Eastwood.’
‘Gunslinger,’ observed Carla, almost indifferently.
‘More likely gunslingers, plural,’ said Sarah.
Carla simply shrugged. ‘Nothing too unusual about that here.’
‘Where did he go?’ I said.
‘A couple of bars. Met a woman. Someone I recognized, but I don’t know her by name, but she’s a secretary in the office of one of the island’s politicians. They exchanged envelopes.’
‘You get pics of that?’
‘Of course.’ She patted the folder.
‘How long did the meet last?’ Sarah was anxious to know.
Carla looked up at the rotating colonial fan as she pondered the question. ‘About ten or fifteen minutes. Time for a quick drink and some earnest, furtive talk.’
‘Do you think he gave her money, a bribe?’ I said.
‘Listen, I deal in facts. I’m an ex-cop, right. I saw envelopes exchanged. I don’t have X-ray eyes. I don’t speculate. My thoughts on what might have been in the envelopes count for nought.’
I liked her answer because it endorsed the veracity of her report; she wasn’t one for histrionics or embroidery.
‘What next?’
‘They shook hands and separated.’
‘So it was a business meeting?’ I said, posing another question. ‘They weren’t socializing? They were there for a transaction?’
‘That’s the way it looked.’
‘Where was Laura all this time?’ Sarah wondered aloud.
‘Out of their direct line of vision, face half-shielded with large shades and head covered with a floppy hat.’
‘Did she leave when they did?’ I said.
‘Yeah, she followed the guy.’
‘That figures,’ said Sarah.
‘And you stayed on her?’ I quizzed.
‘Naturally. That’s my brief, isn’t it?’
‘Of course,’ I concurred. ‘This must have been something of a procession; you on Laura’s tail and she on his.’
‘That’s exactly how it was.’ She wasn’t amused. In fact, I sensed she was becoming pissed off with my pedantry.
Carla took out the pics and handed them round, as if dealing playing cards. In appearance, Pope bore a close resemblance to his father, of whom there were many photographs on the internet, plus a detailed Wikipedia biography.
‘Very distinguished,’ murmured Sarah, but without admiration.
‘And doesn’t he know it!’ sneered Carla. ‘All the characteristics of a smooth viper. Just look at those reptilian eyes.’
I took no part in this particular assassination. Instead, I tried to visualize him in his rowing days at Oxford. He certainly had the physique, though much of his muscle had degenerated into flab. He hadn’t lost much hair, but it was now the colour of tinsel. All oarsmen needed gargantuan hands – all the bigger to strangle you with – and Pope was no exception. His head was boulder-shaped and his slightly hooded eyes were set deeply in pendulous flesh. In a couple of shots, he was flashing teeth that seemed to have been fastidiously preserved. As for his clothes, he was dressed to be absorbed in any wallpaper of the Bahamas: garish, short-sleeved shirt, blue silk slacks and white brothel-creeper shoes.
‘Did Laura return to her hotel?’ I asked, moving on.
‘Not right away. First, she drove to the quay to a boat-hiring business.’
‘What sort of boats?’
‘Small fishing craft and speedboats. She was there about twenty minutes and came away with what looked like a brochure or tariff. Then she drove to the hotel.’
‘And didn’t surface again?’
‘Not out the front; not by car.’
‘Is there any other way of leaving the hotel?’ Sarah quizzed.
‘Yes, but only on foot. She could walk through the pool area to the beach, then go either way, east or west. But she was in her room at 10 p.m.’
‘How can you be sure of that?’ I said.
‘Because I called the hotel from my car on my mobile and asked to be put through to her room She answered.’
‘And you hung up?’ said Sarah.
‘Not without speaking because to have just killed the call might have aroused her suspicions. I said, “Sorry, I must have the wrong room. I’m calling my mother and I can tell you’re not her age.”’
‘So you got an early night?’ I said.
‘No. I hung around in the hotel parking lot until midnight just in case she did emerge to join the night-owls.’
‘But she didn’t?’
‘No. Perhaps she wanted a good night’s sleep to be fresh for a fishing trip today.’
That set me thinking.
‘Is that it?’ said Sarah.
‘For now. You can keep that report and the pics; I have copies. I’d better get back on the beat and try to catch up with her. My bet is she’ll already be out of her hotel, but this is a small town; no place to hide. As long as she’s on the move by car, I should be able to sniff her out without too much trouble.’
‘You’re doing a good job,’ I said, affably.
‘Just what are you expecting from this?’ Carla said, puzzled. ‘You seem to be investing a lot of money for a very mundane, limited return. Not that I’m complaining.’
‘I can’t tell you anything more, Carla, but suffice it to say you’re getting us everything we want. But now’s the time for a change of focus.’
Carla caught on immediately. ‘You want me to concentrate on the guy, Dickie Lambert?’
‘Most importantly, we need instant warning should he seem to be preparing to leave the island,’ I said.
‘Are you cops?’ Carla said, suddenly, her eyes jumping back and forth between me and Sarah.
‘Now what gave you that idea?’ I said, stalling.
‘So you are!’
‘I didn’t say that,’ I said, without conviction.
‘Oh, but you did! I was a cop, remember; a damned good one, too, even though I say so myself. I was trained to translate evasive answers. What I haven’t figured out yet is who’s the real target.’
‘Just keep the meter running and pocket the money,’ I implored. ‘You’re doing fine.’
‘Does it matter who or what we are?’ Sarah butted in.
Carla shrugged again, a mannerism of hers that I was beginning to recognize. ‘Could do. I don’t knowingly take commissions from gangsters.’
‘And would you classify cops as gangsters?’ I said, teasingly.
‘Oh, yeah, quite easily! Especially where I come from.’ Getting up, she added, ‘OK, I don’t know what’s going on, but I’ll play along for the time being. But, be warned, if I smell a rat …’
‘Oh, you’ll smell a rat, all right, Carla, but it won’t emanate from present company, believe me,’ I said.
A little happier now, Carla made off with
her briefcase, treating us to an over-the-shoulder, irreverent wave. Like Sarah, she had style.
Just after lunch I took a call on my mobile from Carla. She was breathless now, adrenaline making her voice hoarse.
‘Things are developing,’ she said. ‘Fast. Nasty. I’m on the road. Trailing a car. You need to play catch-up; quick as you can. I’ll try to give you directions that you can follow easily. I’m out of my comfort zone, losing the plot.’
‘Whose car are you pursuing?’ I said.
Sarah’s ears twitched like those of a rabbit.
‘His. But they’re together.’
‘They?’ I said, perplexed.
‘Lambert and Laura.’
Carla was losing me. ‘What am I missing?’ I said.
‘I’ll explain as soon as you’re rolling. Keep your phone open. The vibes are bad here. Very, veree bad.’
‘Handing you over to Sarah,’ I said.
We were in the lobby. Sarah was pulling faces, mutely asking for the storyline.
‘Let’s go,’ I urged, as Sarah took my cell-phone.
By now we were running through the parking lot, wringing wet as if under a steaming shower. Out of the shade, the temperature was at least forty degrees centigrade. Not a cloud between Nassau and Miami, ninety miles to the east. The only breeze came from the vortex whipped up by our own exertions. By the time we reached our Oldsmobile, we were both hyperventilating.
‘We’re about to roll,’ Sarah spoke into the phone as I gunned the engine. ‘Which way should we turn on to Bay Street?’
‘Right,’ said Carla. ‘Hug the coastal road. Don’t peel off towards the airport. Keep the ocean in sight on your right.’
Sarah relayed instructions to me, saying to Carla, ‘Where are you?’
‘About five minutes ahead of you. Lambert’s at the wheel of the car – with a gun pressed to the back of his head. Laura’s gun.’
Sarah passed this information to me dispassionately, staccato-style. She was always at her cool, professional best in hairy situations.
‘I’ve got to alert the local cops,’ said Carla. ‘We can’t play this solo.’
I agreed. The show had to be opened up. It was imperative that we stayed on the right side of the law.
‘Ask her where she reckons they’re heading?’ I instructed Sarah.
Carla’s answer was what I feared: ‘No idea.’
‘How did this begin?’ Sarah asked.
‘She was waiting for him as he emerged unsuspectingly from his office,’ said Carla. ‘He opened the driver’s door of his car, got in, and as he was sticking the key in the ignition, she jumped in the rear. She must have already drawn the gun because, as he swung round, he found himself staring down that scary little black hole.’
‘Where were you?’ said Sarah.
‘Sitting in my parked car across the road, about a hundred yards away, binoculars on them.’
‘No other witnesses?’ said Sarah.
‘No one else around close enough. She was talking in the car, obviously reading him the riot act. He turned away from her, so he was facing ahead. Then they were wheeling, taking it nice and steady.’
Before Sarah could pop any more questions, Carla said excitedly, ‘They’re pulling off the road.’
‘How far are you behind?’ Said Sarah.
‘Two hundred yards. I’ve slowed. I mustn’t get too close yet. I’m stopping. They’re jumping ship. I’m going the rest of the way on foot. You’ll see my car at the side of the road. I’m disconnecting now to call the cavalry.’
Sarah had treated me to a non-stop running commentary.
‘This is getting out of hand,’ she said.
The road was not made for rallying. It was narrow and circuitous, with holes like craters. Even so, I kept my foot flat on the pump, as if I was trying out for a place in a Formula One racing team. We were kicking up dust as if crossing the Sahara. We sped past large, colonial-fashioned houses among palms and pines to our right, with their own ocean-fronts and private marinas. Through the trees we caught glimpses of the endless white sand.
As we careened round a tight right-handed bend, leaning into the tilt, with Sarah almost propelled on to my lap, we spotted Carla’s abandoned car just ahead. I hit the brake pedal just as hard as I’d been accelerating, subjecting our vehicle to the severest possible stress as we went into a skidding tailspin before shuddering to a halt, our nostrils assaulted by the overpowering smell of burning rubber.
Sarah was first out of the car, but I soon caught up.
‘This way,’ she said, leading me into a clearing that led to a narrow, stony track. ‘They must have gone this way. The sea can’t be far away.’
The path was sinuous and gloomy because little sunlight was able to filter through the roof of leaves and branches. We didn’t have far to go. After two bends, we were suddenly on sand with the beach directly ahead.
Carla was standing on the beach with binoculars pressed to her eyes. She heard our running footsteps and turned, but only briefly.
‘Where are they?’ I said, as we joined Carla, who pointed out to sea.
A speedboat was cutting a soapy swath through the transparent, turquoise southern Atlantic, a frothy trail in its wake.
‘The boat was just throttling away from that jetty when I got here,’ said Carla. ‘Lambert at the controls, Laura behind him.’
‘Still with the gun to his head?’ I asked.
‘Oh, yeah. The brain-mincing Magnum was still in her hand; still tickling the hairs of his neck.’
I looked at the tiny jetty; no other boat was moored there. Neither did the jetty appear to belong to any property; there was no house nearby, as far as I could see.
‘Where do you suppose they’re going?’ I said.
Carla shrugged, keeping her US Army-issue binoculars pinned on the speedboat. ‘Apparently not Paradise Island, which is to our right. They’re arcing left, heading sort of north-west.’
‘Towards Florida?’ Sarah suggested.
‘That direction, yes, but they’ll never make it in that thing. Couldn’t possibly carry enough gas.’
Just then the throttle cut back, with the speedboat about a half-mile from shore.
‘They might have run out of juice already,’ Carla surmised, wishfully. ‘No power at all now. They’re drifting. Oh, shit!’
‘What now?’ I demanded, cogently, not able to follow the action without binoculars.
‘She’s drawn a knife.’
‘A knife!’ I intoned, mystified. ‘What about the gun?’
‘She’s transferred the gun to her left hand. The knife’s in her right hand, Jesus! I don’t get any of this. No sense in this at all. How many weapons does she need?’ The question was rhetorical. ‘It’s a flick-knife; gangland weapon.’ Then, as an aside, ‘Where the hell are the cops? They should be here by now. Probably coming on skateboards!’
‘What’s the guy doing now?’ I said.
‘Filling his pants, I guess. She’s edging towards him. He’s backing off as much as he can, without toppling overboard. Now she’s lashed out.’
‘With the knife?’ I said, eagerly.
‘Yeah. She’s cut him. On the hand. The hand he put up to shield his face. He’s clasping his hand, trying to wrap a handkerchief around it.’
I didn’t understand this at all. ‘And what’s she doing?’
‘Seems to be just standing there, watching.’
‘Not using the knife any more?’ said Sarah.
‘No, she’s thrown it overboard. This is weird.’
Police-car sirens were wailing in the distance, still some way off.
‘Do they have a fix on us?’ I asked, alluding to the cops.
‘They have a car reg,’ said Carla. ‘They’ll find us soon enough.’
‘Anything new happening on the boat?’ I said.
‘You bet! Now she’s waving the gun in his face. He’s shaking his head. I wish I could lip-read. Guessing, I’d say he’s still pleading
to be spared: Please don’t do it!’
The sirens were much closer now; could be no further away than half a mile.
‘Jeese!’ exclaimed Carla. ‘He’s jumped!’
‘Over the side?’ I said, stupidly.
‘Yeah. Fully clothed. Shirt, slacks, shoes. He’s splashing around. He doesn’t look much of a swimmer. But now she’s tossed him a lifebelt! This is bizarre. She forces him over the side, then throws him a lifeline.’ She turned to us distrustfully, her stare fierce and challenging, as if we must somehow be a party to this comic opera.
Now it was my turn to shrug helplessly.
Carla returned to her watching brief. ‘She’s restarted the engine.’
‘So it hadn’t run out of fuel,’ Sarah commented, needlessly.
Carla made no reply, instead saying. ‘She’s steering away from him. Abandoning him. Heading back to shore, this way. Now she’s gotten rid of something else over the side. Could be a gun.’
I scratched my head, trying to fathom the significance of what I was being fed. ‘What’s he doing?’
‘Holding on to the ring. Staying afloat. He should be OK. The ocean’s as flat as a living-room carpet, even that far out. The cops can have a rescue launch out to him in no time at all.’
The speedboat, with Laura standing erect at the controls, wasn’t speeding now. Behind us, the pounding footsteps on the stones announced the belated arrival of uniformed cops, led by a sergeant.
Carla handed me the binoculars while she spoke with the four officers. Out of the corner of an eye, I could see Carla jabbing a finger seawards, towards the spot where Pope, Lambert to her, had plunged into the water.
Brushing Carla aside, the sergeant marched to me, demanding, ‘Gimme! Let me have a look.’ Before I had a chance to react, he snatched the binoculars. Moments later, he said, ‘I can see a speedboat, but that’s all. The boat’s making for here, it seems to me. Just one person on board, a woman. No man. No one out there in the water, as far as I can see.’
‘Let me show you,’ said Carla, retrieving her binoculars and pointing them towards the distant point where Pope had been clinging to a lifebelt. ‘That’s strange,’ she muttered, after a moment of panning the area of her magnified focus. ‘I’ve got the lifebelt in my sights, but …’
The One a Month Man Page 19