Brad cut the engines and threw out the anchor. Jane and I pulled on our flippers, checked our weight belts and buoyancy compensators. Brad stood in front of us and ticked off a pre-dive checklist on his fingers.
“One, go up and down along the anchor line. Two, descend slowly, clear your ears regularly. When you come up, follow your bubbles, no faster. To clear your mask: look up, push at the top of your mask and blow through your nose. If you lose your mouthpiece: reach right, insert, clear it and breathe. Watch your pressure, your gauges are on the left. Stay with me at all times. Thumb and forefinger in a circle means okay. Thumb up means you want to go up. If you’re in trouble or have a problem of any sort, point to your ears. And the most important thing?
Jane spoke up quickly, “Don’t hold your breath.”
“All right, campers, over we go,” he said.
Jane sat on the stern of the boat as Brad fitted on her tanks. Once she had her mouthpiece in she put her right hand on her mask, her left on the back of her head and stepped off into the sea. I followed her in and then down along the anchor line toward the ocean floor. We stopped a couple of feet from the bottom and flashed the “OK” sign at each other. When Brad joined us, we moved away from the boat.
Except for the sound of my own breathing it was absolutely silent. I took a couple of deep breaths and felt okay. The air was so dry that even underwater your lungs felt like they were in Phoenix. The water was fabulously clear. As we swam along, Brad pointed out huge hermit crabs and starfish hugging the bottom. When we came to some fire coral, he pointed to it, then looked at us and shook his head and wagged his finger. I was already well acquainted with fire coral’s charm.
It was such a pleasure to be free of gravity, to shed the burden of my weight, that I just floated along treasuring my buoyancy. I shall come back as a manatee, if I’m lucky.
Every now and then I rose above Brad and Jane and felt an invigorating chill as I passed through a layer of colder water. Below me, Jane swam on, golden brown and infinitely graceful. Her hair flowed freely around her head, making the corona of blond hair that rimmed her brow even more dramatic. I watched her rapid flutter-kick propel her through the water like a seal: sleek, smooth and strong.
A jolt of longing went through me. God, Sam, where are you? I began to rise to the surface.
Below me, I saw Jane and Brad leaving me behind. Sitting on the boat wouldn’t bring Sam and me together. I dove downward and shot along, breathing evenly in and out, seduced by my aqualung into a sense of ease, of belonging down here. It was a seduction I relished.
Pulling up alongside the two of them, I saw a shape at the edge of my field of vision. We swam along for a while and the shape did too. We stopped and it stopped. I rose and it rose, too. I tapped Brad and Jane on the shoulders, pointed into the distance and began to move back away from them. The shape came forward, mirroring my every move. As soon as I saw the interlocking teeth I recognized our shadow. A barracuda. This one was six feet and a hundred pounds of sinuous silver rocket. I stopped moving and so did it. The tail rippled and fluttered slowly as it held itself motionless. The flat black eyes had all the warmth of a hockey puck, and no surgeon’s scalpel ever made could match the edge on those teeth. A barracuda’s bite makes a paper cut look ragged.
Just as suddenly as it appeared the barracuda was gone. Brad and Jane swam up to me and showed me their gauges. I checked mine and found myself with less air than either of them. Brad gave the thumbs up sign and we nodded in agreement.
Back on the boat, Jane peeled off her mask and said “God, it is so beautiful down there. So calm, so quiet and peaceful. I love it.” She picked up a towel and rubbed her face and hair. “It’s so totally foreign. There’s nothing of us there. And there’s nothing to do, just watch and touch.” She laughed. “I love it, you can’t sell the fish anything, you can’t impress them. I’m ready for gills.”
Brad moved back and forth across the deck, making fast the gear, then bringing up the anchor. He started the engine and we headed back.
“What was that big fish that came out of nowhere there at the end?” Jane asked.
“A barracuda.”
“Aren’t they supposed to be dangerous?”
“They can be, but they don’t seem to be interested in people as food. They’ll bite you if you mess with them but I’ve never heard of one attacking a diver. Mostly they do what that one did. Follow you like a shadow in the distance or they mirror what you do. Stop, go, change direction and they do the same thing.”
As I said it, I remembered the man who intercepted Anita at the Occidental. He’d cut her off from pursuing Jane just as I would have. I knew now that I wasn’t being paranoid. Or maybe it’s like they say, even paranoids can have real enemies. I knew they were real, but I still had to find out who they were and why they were here.
CHAPTER 31
Back at the dock, I asked Jane what she wanted to do for the rest of the day.
“I don’t know,” she said, “have lunch, work on my tan, do some more thinking.”
“I’m going to do a little shopping at the sundries shop. I’ll look for you at the beach bar for lunch.”
“Okay.”
I grabbed my wallet from our room and walked up the road to the front office. With every step I stifled the impulse to run. Bounding up the stairs, I hurried through the dining pavilion. Sid Morrison, cigar smoker and ugly American, was sounding off about “the fucking limeys.”
“Who needs ’em? I can buy and sell the whole lot of ’em. Next year I’ll rent all of the rooms and do anything I damn well please.”
A quick calculation put the figure at a hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars for the week. God save us from small men with deep pockets.
At the front desk I asked for the security chief and was directed down a short hallway. Past the sundries shop and opposite Accounts was a door marked “Security.” I knocked once and walked in.
The man sitting behind the gray steel desk looked up at me with pale gray eyes. “May I help you?” The nameplate on the desk read INSP. KEVIN DEAN (RET.), CHIEF OF SECURITY.
“Inspector Dean?”
“That’s right.”
“I’d like to ask you a couple of questions about security, if I may.”
“Is there a problem?”
“No, I’m just looking for some information.”
“Oh, you are. Well, exactly who are you? Let’s start there.” Dean leaned forward, propped his elbows on the desk and steepled his hands. He was short, fair and bald on top. A reddish fringe of hair descended into white muttonchop sideburns. A splash of freckles dotted his head. His white open-neck shirt had the resort’s name embroidered over his heart.
He picked a burning cigarette out of the ashtray on the desk. After a long drag, he tapped the ash and replaced the butt in the tray. He had the yellowed fingers and teeth of a lifetime smoker. “You haven’t answered my question, sir.”
“Sorry. My name is Leo Haggerty. I’m staying here at the resort. I’m a licensed private investigator in the States and I’m here as the bodyguard of one of the guests. I’d just like to get some information about security here at the resort so I can best protect my client.”
“I see.” He nodded. “Of course, you could be a villain here to do someone harm. Do you have any identification on you?”
I handed him my wallet. He took out a pad, wrote down some notes and gave the wallet back to me. “All right, who’s your client?”
“Sorry, that’s confidential information.”
“Funny, so’s my security operation. Bloody standoff, eh?” He wasn’t smiling. “If you’re expecting trouble here, I’ve a right to know about it and so do the other guests. So, what’ll it be?”
“I don’t know that anything’s going to happen. The answers to my questions will tell me if I’ve got anything to be concerned about. If I think there’s a threat, I’ll want you to know about it. Okay?”
“It’s a start. Ask your questions. I’l
l answer the ones I want to.”
“Fair enough. First, what’s the occupancy here this time of year? I want to know if there have been any last-minute cancellations or arrivals. Secondly, are the boats that anchor offshore allowed to come in and use these facilities?”
“This place is booked-up year-round. I can check the front desk for any last-minute arrivals. As for the boats, all the beaches here are public property up to the high water mark. Boatsman are welcome to use our facilities, at a cost, of course, for up to ten days. They have to check in with us whenever they come ashore. Any boat in particular that you’re interested in?”
“Yes, The Lucky Stiff out of St. Thomas.”
“All right, let’s get the answers to your questions.” He picked up the phone and dialed the front desk. After he repeated my questions, we sat and stared at each other. Dean leaned forward, made some more notes and hung up.
“Only one cancellation and late arrival. A Ms. S. J. Summers and Mr. L. Haggerty. Here for four days.” He smiled with pleasure at his little victory.
I kept my expression neutral, but on the inside I asked myself “Second time, Nicky?” Dean went on. “Three boats sent people ashore the last two days. The Lucky Stiff sent people ashore both days. The register was signed by a Mr. Dick Richards. He gave no home address.”
“Is there any way to have him barred from the resort until we leave?”
“I need a good reason to do that. Probable cause, you call it.”
“How about a criminal background?”
“That would make him unsavory and unsuitable for mingling with our guests. Yes, that would do it.”
“Your people, do they carry weapons?”
“No, Mr. Haggerty. This is a British island. I doubt if there’s a gun on this entire island. We have very little crime here. Some petty thefts, fights in the local bars. The drug dealers make their transfers on the open sea.”
“That reminds me. The cruiser that ran aground on Deake’s Reef—any possibility that it was transporting drugs?”
He chuckled. “No. The only thing it carried was a moron. A rich moron, who didn’t deserve a boat like that. He was watching his crews’ buns, not his depth gauge. That’s how he came to run aground.”
So much for that possibility. I stood up and extended my hand. “Thanks for your help. I’m still not sure that there’s anything going on, but I’m going to follow up a few more leads. If anything changes I’ll get right back to you.”
“You be sure and do that, Mr. Haggerty. In the meantime we’ll be keeping an eye on Mr. Richards and, of course, you and Ms. Summers.” He smiled again, his teeth a row of corn kernels, and shook my hand.
I shrugged ambiguously and left. Back at the front desk, I got directions to the one guest phone on the entire resort. I needed to talk to Danny Freeman. He should have recovered from his binge by now. Dialing his number, I reflected on my exchange with Retired Inspector Dean. I’d eliminated two hypotheses from my list and had convinced another pair of eyes to watch over us. I’d gotten everything I could have hoped for. The rest was up to me.
Danny picked up the phone on the sixth ring. “Hello?”
“Danny, it’s Leo …”
“Leo, what happened? I’ve been waiting to hear from you.”
“Yeah, well, things took off. This is the first chance I’ve had to call.”
“Okay. So what were we going to talk about? I was one hurting cowboy that night.”
“Jane Doe and the Pleasure Principle.”
“That’s right. What do you want to know?”
“What’s your candid opinion of the band?”
“I like them a lot. Energetic, committed, great live performers. Jane’s a superb singer and one of the best lyricists around …”
“How about Axel Andersson?”
“Great guitarist, a lot better than I ever was, that’s for sure. Very fast but he’s not just flashy. He plays with a lot of feeling. He writes all the group’s music, too. A very creative guy. What can I say? I hate him.”
“What about Sturdivant and Rohatan?”
“Nice guys. Technically competent and apparently egoless. They’re slipstreaming along with two major talents and they know it. They hold up their end on stage and in the studio, but they know that Axel and Jane will take them places that they’d never get to on their own.”
“Okay, if the group were to split up, say Jane going solo and the other three sticking together, what are their prospects?”
“What do you know, Leo?”
“Nothing. This is all hypothetical, Danny. I just want your opinion.”
“I’m going to close my eyes while that enormous lie slithers past. Okay, speaking hypothetically, of course—Jane is a cult act. Passionate fans but a limited following. The band’s chances of breaking out are based on Andersson’s music. Jane may be a poet, but rock ’n’ roll is music, not literature. The other three have a better chance of getting a decent recording deal if they can find an adequate singer. They won’t be the same band, but they’ll sell.”
“Do you know anything about the terms of the band’s deal?”
“Nothing for certain. I know what the rumors are.”
“And they are?”
“A three-hundred-thousand dollar recording fund, two LPs guaranteed, at least one video and substantial tour support.”
“What kind of deal is that?”
“The word scrumptious comes to mind.”
“What kind of money are we talking about if this band does well?”
“Hard to say, Leo. It depends on all sorts of things. How the records sell, concert gates, endorsements, song royalties. Then you have to take out Ballantine’s cut, the split with the label on the video and the tour, producer’s fees, taxes and lawyers’ fees. Big acts earn millions of dollars a year.”
“What’s the jump from where they are now?”
“Even if they do poorly, Leo, you can figure on a hundredfold growth in earnings. Not a bad investment, eh?”
“That’s for sure. What do you know about Nicky Ballantine?”
“The guy fancies himself a real mover and shaker, but until he got together with this group he was rolling on his rims.”
“What was his problem?”
“Impatient. He was always looking for the easy way, the quick fix. Mr. Short Cut. He never let his groups jell and grow. He always pushed too hard, too soon.”
“Maybe he just didn’t have the talent before.”
“I wish that were true, Leo. Some really talented people were scuttled by him. When they didn’t earn back their advances they wound up owing the labels a lot of money. That stuff gets around. They never got a second chance.”
“Why has he done so well with this group?”
“Hey, you’re the detective, Leo, not me. You want a mystery, there’s one for you.”
“Thanks, Danny. You’ve been a lot of help.”
“My pleasure. One thing though, how about passing on anything that you don’t learn?”
“If I can, Danny, if I can.”
I sat in the booth and tried to fit everything I had just learned with all my suspicions and hunches. I was able to create two equally plausible conspiracies. They each had the same problem. There was no payoff in harming Jane. Maybe I really was paranoid after all.
Without thinking, I dialed another number.
The soft hello I heard startled me. “He … Hello.” I stammered back.
“Yes?”
“Samantha?”
“Leo?”
“Yes. I was surprised to hear your voice. I thought you were in New York.”
“I was, but I came back,” she said, warily.
Neither of us spoke for a moment, then Sam asked, “Leo, if you thought I was in New York, why did you call?”
I thought for a second, but felt no less stupid. “I don’t know. I was thinking about you, and I wanted to talk to you, and I guess I just forgot, that’s all.”
“What did you want to
talk about?”
Stupider still. I’d wanted to talk to her but I hadn’t worked out what I wanted to say. She wasn’t supposed to be there, I complained silently …
“I was just thinking that maybe it was time for me to think about changing my line of work. Get off the streets, you know, work more regular hours.” I listened to what I was saying and shook my head.
“Leo, are you all right?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. Why?”
“Leo, I feel like the captain of the Titanic. I can see the iceberg over there and I know there’s got to be a hell of a lot more ice out there I can’t see. Like everything that led up to what you just said. Care to fill me in on any of it?”
Suddenly, it became just too hard to do over the phone. “Sam, I’ll be back in a couple of days. I’ll tell you about it then. I just wanted to let you know that I was okay and …”
I hesitated and Sam filled the gap. “And?” she said.
“And that I miss you a lot. That’s all.”
Two heartbeats later, Sam answered, “Hurry home, darling. I miss you, too. Terribly.”
CHAPTER 32
Walking through the dining pavilion, I stopped to scan the week’s activities board. There we were, listed as S.J. Doe (2) Rm. 40, for the snorkel and scuba trips. What’s done is done. Jane was waving at me from the beach. I walked over to her.
“What’s up?” I asked.
“I decided to try that picnic for two I read about. Let’s go. We’ve been waiting for you. Two other couples are going with us.”
Reluctantly, I followed Jane out to the boat and sat down. Our companions were the older couple from the snorkel trip and Sid Morrison and a tall blond girl. She had blond hair cut very short, large blue eyes, thin lips, and a long graceful neck. I thought she looked like an ostrich, but Sid, hand on her knee, was enthralled.
Jane sat happily between a beach umbrella and a picnic basket. Our snorkel gear sprouted up out of the bag in her lap. I tried to return her smile and didn’t do well. I brooded over my suspicions and finally decided that whatever might happen, it wasn’t going to occur with four witnesses. That conclusion cheered me up.
The Things We Do for Love Page 16