“So, we need to find the connection between Bill, Tiffany, and your Wrangler? Isn’t that you?”
“Sure, seems that way.” With care, I lowered myself back onto the lounger. “But first we need to find out what happened to Tiffany. Until we get more answers, we’ll have to just sit and wait.”
Talking this through with Arabella had helped, and the thing nagging me was becoming a bit clearer. I had ideas about the connection and the motive and what it all meant but needed evidence. It’d take more time to develop the picture.
“Well, we may have to wait, but we do not have to sit.” She set down her beer, stood, and sauntered in my direction. Swinging a leg over the side of my lounger, she straddled my midsection and lowered herself on top of me, unzipping my shorts.
“I haven’t had dinner yet,” I said.
She kissed my neck, sending shivers rolling down my spine, and whispered in my ear, “Are you hungry?” She pressed her pelvis into my groin.
“Not right now.” I wrapped my arms around her, and she moaned softly. I pressed my fingers into her spine and followed it down to the top of her shorts.
My bruised rib was all but forgotten, and Arabella didn’t seem bothered by her concussion.
But the sight of Tiffany’s dead body was still fresh in my mind.
CHAPTER 25
I AWOKE ON the veranda, sprawled sideways in the lounger with a stiff neck. I blinked the cobwebs from my eyes and tried to stand, only to crumble and fall back on the lounger. It felt like some of my internals had shifted in place as if my rib cage had ground against something. To my detriment, I’d ignored it the last few days.
Last night was a blur, but I remembered going to bed around two. Arabella went straight to sleep, her steady breathing muffling the pulse of the ceiling fan. My mind raced as I tossed and turned in bed, events of the last few days reeling through my mind like an old Dragnet episode. Unable to sleep, I went to the balcony.
Most of the night, I sat on the lounger. Different images of Tiffany’s body lying along the shore filled my consciousness, the silence of the island interrupted only by the gentle lap of the sea from across the street.
I couldn’t stop wondering about Ozzie. As he grew up, how much would he remember about Tiffany? How would her appearance change as he grew older and her image slowly faded? Perhaps he had a picture of her that he’d keep, watching it yellow and fade over time.
Did she have a favorite color? A favorite dress? What about the games they played together? Like mothers sometimes do, maybe she had a pet name for him. Would he remember her voice, how she talked? At two years old, I doubted he’d have many lasting memories.
She’d be a stranger—someone from his past who no one spoke of or about. To him, just a name.
Even though I’d never met Ozzie, his immediate future concerned me. I hoped he wouldn’t get bumped from relative to relative. Or worse yet, thrown into foster care. As a silent promise to Tiffany, I vowed never to let that happen.
I was, in large part, responsible for Tiffany’s death. I’d never be able to make up for that—not to me, Ozzie, or anyone else. Especially not to Tiffany. She had so much to offer, yet she was gone, and I was partly to blame. Maybe fully. Sadness and guilt had overwhelmed me as I eventually slipped into an uncomfortable sleep.
I limped into the bedroom at nine o’clock. Arabella had gone to work and left a note asking me to call her later. I borrowed some of her pain medication.
Downstairs in the office, Erika greeted me with tearful eyes and a hug. After she pulled away, she blew her nose and sat down. She shook her head and wiped her eyes with a tissue. “I’m going to miss her smile.”
The desk chair squeaked as I sat. “So am I.”
My stomach growled and reminded me I hadn’t eaten since early yesterday. I reached into the small office refrigerator and pulled out a carton of yogurt and a small bottle of orange juice. Erika went back to whatever she was doing on the computer. I had lost track of any business concerns over the last few days and was grateful for her tenacity in keeping things straight. I had no doubt the resort—and me—would be lost without her.
I called Richter’s Garage and asked Kevin about my Wrangler.
“It is ready, so stop anytime and pick it up,” he said. “The keys are in it. I will send you a bill.”
“Thanks, Kevin.”
Next, I gave Arabella a call. She didn’t answer so I left a message telling her I’d be at the station after picking up my Wrangler.
I leaned back in my chair. “I should check on Lester. See if he’s alright.”
“I do not believe he is in his room,” Erika said. “At least not this morning. Housekeeping reported that his room needed no cleaning.”
“What?”
“They said he had not slept the whole night in his bed.” Erika stopped typing and looked at me. “Where would he be?”
“Don’t know.” I threw the empty yogurt container in the trash can.
“Should we be worried?” Her eyes widened, and she took a deep breath. “Would he hurt himself because of Tiffany?”
I shook my head. “Don’t know that either. I should have a look.”
Before I made it to the door, the office phone rang. Erika answered it, then held the receiver out to me. “It is Arabella.”
I put the phone to my ear. “Hey.”
“Conklin, some guy is at Ruth’s causing problems,” Arabella said. Her voice was loud, and she breathed heavy with each word.
“Do you want me to meet you there?” I asked.
“Yes. I am on my way now.”
Reality struck—my Wrangler was at Richter’s, and Arabella’s car was still at Karpata. “Okay, I’ll borrow Erika’s car and be right there.”
She took two breaths. “Conklin, we need to keep this quiet. One of Ruth’s girls called me. Whoever this guy is, Ruth has Wilbur out and pointed at him.”
CHAPTER 26
RUTH DID BUSINESS in a sprawling one-story structure on a dead-end street, nestled in a quiet residential area in the center of Kralendijk. The wrong attention is terrible for any business, but more so for hers. She prided herself on being a good neighbor, so the residents turned a blind eye to her trade, as did local law enforcement, and she wanted to keep it that way.
Five minutes after leaving the YellowRock, I pulled Erika’s car onto the graveled edge of the road in front of Ruth’s establishment. Arabella had not yet arrived. I didn’t wait for her and hurried across the yard to where Ruth stood at the front of the carport. Huddled in a group, ten feet behind her, a group of five young women in various types of undergarments and see-through robes held each other tight.
At the back of the carport, wearing only a pair of boxer shorts, Lester Jeffrey had his arm wrapped around the neck of a naked woman no more than twenty years old. Both breathed heavily. Red-faced, eyes wide with terror, a stream of blood trickled from the young girl’s nose. Sweat glistened off her light brown skin and tears rolled down her cheeks.
“Let her go, asshole,” Ruth said. “Now!”
Ruth pointed a pistol—Wilbur as she referred to it—at Lester. Arabella had told me previously that Ruth owned a handgun, but until today, I had never seen it. She also said that Ruth had never fired it.
Wilbur was a Ruger model P89 semiautomatic with a four-and-a-half-inch barrel, chambered in nine-millimeter, identical to the first weapon I ever owned. But unlike the one I had owned, this P89 was well used and poorly maintained. Its finish was scuffed and scratched with traces of powder visible on the end of the barrel, indicating a lack of cleaning. The hammer was cocked, and I had to assume a round was chambered and ready to fire. The lack of proper safety knowledge and handling techniques are the prime causes of accidental weapon discharges. I doubted Ruth had much, if any, firearms training.
“Ruth, be careful,” I said.
She ignored me, keeping the pistol pointed at Lester. “I said now.”
“Hey,” Lester said, kissing the girl’s ear. “We’re just havin
g some fun.” The girl closed her eyes and sobbed as he rubbed one of her breasts.
“Let me handle this, Blaze,” I said.
She snapped her head at me. “Back off.” She kept the weapon’s barrel pointed at Lester.
We stared at each other for a few seconds as her eyes narrowed even further. She turned back toward Lester and the girl. “This is your last chance.” She adjusted her grip on the old weapon and took a step closer to them.
Lester tightened his arm around the girl’s neck and positioned her between himself and Ruth, acting as if he were daring Ruth to fire.
The situation was escalating out of control, and I was about to take the weapon from Ruth when a truck door slammed. Arabella ran across the yard and stopped beside me, her head swiveling from Ruth to Lester, and back to me. She shook her head and mumbled some Dutch, which I didn’t understand. Must be a lesson I hadn’t gotten to yet.
“This is your last chance!” yelled Ruth.
I fanned my arm, encompassing the entire scene. “It’s all yours, Inspector.”
Arabella took a deep breath, walked over to Ruth, and took Wilbur away from her, holding the barrel pointed down and away from Lester and the bystanders.
To Ruth, she said, “Geef het aan mij.”
Ruth stared as Arabella dropped the magazine into her left hand and jacked the live round out of the chamber, catching it in midair. She laid the weapon on the front stoop and placed the magazine and spare cartridge alongside it.
She pointed at the Ruger as she moved her gaze across the crowd. “Nobody touches this weapon.” She took two steps toward Ruth. “Niemand.”
Ruth opened her mouth, but before she could utter a word, Arabella stepped to the carport toward Lester and the girl.
Lester smiled. “No harm done, Officer.” He nuzzled the girl’s hair. “Right, honey?”
Arabella grabbed Lester by the throat and gave him a side jab to the kidneys. His eyes widened, he moaned, then gasped for air. The girl squirmed out of his grasp and ran to the comfort of her coworkers.
Still holding Lester’s throat, Arabella yelled something in Dutch and shoved him backward. He tripped over a bench and fell on his back, his head slamming against the concrete driveway. Arabella maintained her grasp on Lester’s throat and fell to the floor with him, landing in a kneeling position.
Ruth and I made our way to the back of the carport.
Arabella put her face close to Lester’s, sweat dripping off her forehead onto his cheeks. “I am sorry for your loss, Mr. Jeffrey.” Her teeth clenched and her voice low and throaty, she sounded like a mix of Uma Thurman and Linda Hamilton. “But this is not a way to handle it.” Lester’s head jerked back as Arabella tightened her grip on his throat. “Understand?”
Lester scraped his cheek across the concrete floor as he tried to nod his approval the best he could. Pain, oxygen deprivation, embarrassment, or a combination of all three had turned his face beet red.
“When I let you up, you will go stand by your truck.” Arabella took a couple deep breaths. “Do not make me ass kick you another time.”
Lester took a breath. “Okay!”
Arabella let go of Lester’s throat. The color returned to his face as he raised his head from the concrete, waiting for Arabella to move away. After a moment, she got to her feet, which allowed him to stand.
So much for light duty.
I offered a hand to Lester, but he refused my help, standing on his own. Surprising he could stand, considering he reeked of booze.
He thrust his chest toward Arabella. “What about my clothes?”
Arabella pointed at his truck. With a scowl and pursed lips, she said, “Go.”
With his chest still thrust forward, Lester started walking to his truck. Arabella wiped her face with the sleeve of her shirt and sighed deeply as she straightened her holster and belt. My mouth may have been open; I wasn’t sure. She ran her fingers through her hair and looked at me.
I was speechless.
She jerked her head at Lester. “You want to talk to him for me?” Her voice and demeanor back to normal. “I will talk to Ruth. If we can, I want to keep this unofficial.”
“Agreed.”
Ruth had already gathered the girls and gone inside. Arabella turned and walked into the building, leaving me standing in the yard. I shook my head and watched Lester walk across the yard, then made my way over to his truck.
I mimicked Lester’s lean against the fender of Ericka’s car, waiting for him to speak. Why wasn’t I fishing and enjoying my retirement?
“I didn’t mean any harm,” Lester finally said. “That wacky Dutch broad was going to shoot me.”
Which one? I wanted to ask but decided against it. I crossed my arms and let out a long, slow breath. Helping Lester wasn’t my responsibility. I was ready to give up on the jerk and let him fend for himself. His treatment of Tiffany had been deplorable, and he’d displayed nothing but hostility toward me. I owed him nothing and could easily walk away from all of this, never giving it a second thought. Maybe teach him a lesson.
But I decided to stay and help him work through it. Tiffany would’ve wanted it that way—me being there in Lester’s time of need. Considering I was partly to blame for her death, I owed her that much. And then some.
“Lester, why are you here?”
“I don’t know.” The sun burned through the clear, early, Caribbean sky. Lester rubbed the back of his neck, sweat beading on his forehead. “I couldn’t sleep last night. All I could do was think about Tiff. I drove around and ended up here.” He rubbed his face with both hands. “Lonely, I guess.”
I wasn’t buying it. Something didn’t make sense. The maid said he hadn’t used his bed the previous night. Plus, he stunk of stale alcohol. I figured he was well past his way to a bender, although he gave no outward signs of being intoxicated.
Other than assaulting a young girl, that is.
“Lester, this isn’t a place you happen to find. It’s not like there’s a big neon sign out front. You must’ve asked someone for directions.”
“Honestly, I was driving around and saw this girl having a cigarette on the porch.” He pointed at Ruth’s front porch. “We started talking, and she invited me in. That’s pretty much it.”
“Why was she bleeding?”
He didn’t answer.
“Did you hit her?”
“No!” He shifted his weight. “She fell off the bed.”
I had reason not to believe him. Interrogating hundreds of people, I had learned that a terse, negative response usually indicated a lie. Also, he wouldn’t look me in the eyes, and I could tell his blink rate had increased, all indicators of stress.
“Why didn’t you leave?”
“I was about to when that redheaded Dutch bitch pulled a pistol on me.” He stepped away from the truck and turned to me. He scratched his nose. In some people, lying causes the capillaries in the tip of the nose to expand creating an itching sensation. “Hey, what’s with that pistol, anyway? Where’d she get it?”
A gun conversation with Lester wasn’t territory I wanted to cover. No need for him to know anything more about Wilbur than he already did. It bothered me he had seen the weapon, and I wasn’t about to volunteer anything more. Luckily, Arabella walked out the front door and down the driveway to Lester’s truck.
“Here.” She handed Lester his clothes. “You should never come back here.”
I put my hand on Lester’s shoulder. “Maybe you should go back to your room and get some rest. I’ll check on you later.”
He brushed my hand away and took the clothes from Arabella. “Would she have shot me?”
Arabella put her hands on her hips. “Maybe, maybe not.”
“Really?” Lester asked.
With her eyes wide, Arabella made a single distinct nod. I held back a laugh.
“Lester,” I said. “I’ll see you back at the resort.” I opened the driver’s-side door and motioned for him to get in. Although he smelled of alco
hol, he hadn’t slurred any words or appeared intoxicated. He seemed normal. Jerk-normal, anyway. The YellowRock was five minutes away, and I’d be right behind him. “Drive careful.”
He stared at Arabella for a moment, before getting in his truck and driving away.
Arabella and I watched until he turned the first corner, disappearing down a side road. We were still looking down the street when she spoke. “Ruth said that he knocked on the door late last night. He was with Tinkerbell when—”
“Tinkerbell?”
“Yeah, Tinkerbell, Julieta’s professional name.” She rolled her eyes before continuing. “Early this morning, one of the girls heard crying from Julieta’s room. When Ruth went to check, Julieta said Lester was trying some rough stuff, so Ruth asked him to leave. That’s when he went crazy, and Ruth went for Wilbur.”
“That’s not the way Lester told it.”
“I believe Ruth,” she said, an edge on her voice.
“Me, too,” I said. “Who called you?”
She shrugged. “I didn’t ask. All the girls have my number in case of something like this. Ruth has told them to call me anytime. I’m glad someone called this time.”
“How are you going to handle this?”
“Well.” She took a breath. “I explained who Lester is and what has happened. Julieta feels sorry for him, so she will not be pressing any charges.”
“Sorry for him? He molested and assaulted her.”
“What can I say? She is a romantic. To press charges is up to her. But I am glad she is not.”
Regardless of the prostitution angle, Julieta deserved better. Lester should be arrested, put into the system, and made to pay for his disregard of the law and his disrespect for her. However, the Dutch take pride in toting tolerance as a cultural trait. They even have a word for it. Gedogen means to take a lenient stance or turn a blind eye.
But it wasn’t my island, and I wasn’t in charge. That responsibility fell to Arabella and, deep down, I agreed with her plan.
“Nice job,” I said.
Arabella smiled. “Dank je.” She surveyed the few houses lining the dead-end street. “But I hope none of the neighbors will say anything.” She tossed her hands up and let them fall to her side. “If Wilbur is found out, I cannot help Ruth.”
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