“I think someone dragged her out of the water.”
“You mean someone else found her?”
I said nothing and took a swig of beer.
“If so, why would they not report it to the police?” His eyes bulged. “Are you saying this was not an accident?”
“Maybe, maybe not.” I patted him on the shoulder. “But you don’t know that, okay?”
“Do you think the police know?”
I finished my beer and sat the empty on the bar.
“Yeah, I think they do.”
CHAPTER 32
I PARKED ALONG the street in front of the police station and got out of the Wrangler. A car horn beeped, and Arabella pulled alongside me with her window down.
“Everything okay at Ruth’s?” I asked.
“It will be fine. Nothing got reported, so we are clear.”
Allowing Lester off the hook for assaulting Julieta, the young girl at Ruth’s place, still gnawed me. But a report and investigation would nail Ruth for having a weapon and implicate Arabella for being complicit.
Arabella rubbed her temple. “But my head is hurting a little.”
“How ’bout I cook dinner for you tonight?” I gestured toward the police building. “But right now, I have to talk to Schleper.”
“Dinner sounds good.” She bit her lower lip and swiveled her head from side to side. In a low voice, she said, “Be careful with Schleper.”
“Thanks.” We exchanged waves, and I entered the building.
A female officer sat behind the reception desk. In true island fashion, it took her a few moments to acknowledge me. “Can I help you, sir?”
“I’d like to see Inspector Schleper. I’m Roscoe Conklin.”
She picked up a phone, punched a few numbers, and spoke Papiamentu into the handset. All I recognized was my name.
She hung up the phone. “The inspector will be out soon.”
Three dilapidated plastic chairs that looked as though they had spent most of their lives in an old, inner-city laundromat lined the outside wall. One was yellow, one was orange, and one was blue. I chose the blue one. In the corner, a few old magazines and an empty coffeepot lay on a small table. A single fan moved the hot, stale air around the room doing little to prevent the sweat pooling on my brow.
A man appeared from a hallway behind the front desk and spoke to the female officer, who nodded and pointed in my direction. The man walked toward me, extending his hand as he approached. His shoes punched out a perfect four-beat cadence on the tile floor.
“Mr. Conklin, I am Inspector Schleper. Thank you for stopping by.”
We shook hands. He wore a red tie and his long-sleeved, white shirt sported police markings. We stood eye to eye, but he was a few pounds lighter than me and maybe ten years younger. He had broad shoulders, and his biceps flexed as we shook hands. His haircut was paramilitary, “high and tight” as it’s called.
“Glad to help,” I said. “Please, call me R.”
“Follow me, Mr. Conklin.”
Schleper led me past the reception desk, down a short hallway, to a small room labeled Interview Room 1. I’d spent countless hours in similar rooms. The walls were beige, and the gray table sitting in the center could’ve come from the Rockford Police Department. Schleper plopped into a chair. Behind him, an old computer workstation sat idle on a wooden desk. A clear, plastic dust-cover laid over the mouse, monitor, and keyboard, and, judging by the thick layer of dust, hadn’t been used in years. Money well spent on the dust protector.
Schleper motioned for me to have a seat at the table across from him. His chair had wheels, and he rolled over, switched on a corner fan, and returned.
A laptop computer lay closed on the table, and above it, a manila folder. Schleper opened the folder and positioned several sheets of paper across his side of the table. He gnawed on a pencil and didn’t say anything as his eyes moved from sheet to sheet. I leaned back and crossed my legs, not sure how long this would take. The chairs in these rooms were designed to keep the occupant off balance and uncomfortable.
Kudos to the designers. They did their jobs well.
“So, Mr. Conklin, you found the body. Is that correct?” He began scribbling notes on a sheet of paper.
“Yes.” I had decided to answer his questions as tersely as possible and not volunteer any additional information, at least not initially.
“In your own words, please describe how you came to find the body and its condition.”
I took him through the entire event. He didn’t ask any questions or interrupt, and as I talked, he continued to write. By the time I finished, my mouth was dry, and my T-shirt stuck to my back. The only sound was the predictable click of the oscillating fan.
Having filled the front side of one piece of paper, Schleper turned it over. “Your opinion is that she drowned. Is that correct?” His head hung down, toward his notes, but his eyes eased up, meeting mine.
“Looked that way to me. But I’m not an M.E. An autopsy would verify.”
“Thank you for that opinion. Rest assured, I am fully aware of your qualifications and experience.” He leaned back in the chair, hands resting on his stomach. He stared at me and rocked. “This is my investigation, Mr. Conklin, and we need some information, please, not commentary.”
I returned his stare, but my chair wouldn’t lean back or rock. “I told you what happened.”
“We appreciate that.”
“I have some questions for you.”
He leaned forward, pointed his pencil at me. “Mr. Conklin, I will ask the questions.”
“Tiffany was a longtime friend of mine.”
“We are aware of that.”
“Has her dive gear been checked out?”
“We are waiting for the report from the team examining the equipment.”
I stared into his eyes. He stared back and didn’t appear to know that I had caught him in a lie. “Explain how she ended up on shore if she drowned.”
“Mr. Conklin—”
“Wouldn’t she be underwater for at least twenty-four hours? Someone dragged her there. How is that an accidental drowning?”
“I have to warn you, Mr. Conklin, not to interfere with our investigation.”
“Investigation? Do you really do investigations at this office? You haven’t even tried to explain something as simple as the sabotage to my Wrangler. You know, the sabotage that put one of your officers in the hospital? Isn’t that important—”
“Mr. Conklin!”
I wasn’t about to let up. “You can’t determine lung hemorrhaging or a larynx spasm unless you do an autopsy.”
He shot out of his chair. With one hand on the table, he steadied himself and leaned as far into me as possible. With his other hand, he pointed a finger at me. “Stop these questions.” Sweat dripped off his nose onto my cheek. “I do not need you compromising our work.” After a moment, he sat back in the chair and glanced at his notes before facing me. “Besides, Mr. Conklin, you are retired.” A thin smile worked its way across his face. “Go spend time at the beach.”
I stayed seated, bit my lower lip, and counted to ten. “You done?”
Schleper straightened, repositioned his tie. “Yes, I am finished. If you are.”
I slammed my hands on the arms of the chair, stood up, and hoped he’d respond in some outlandish fashion. But he didn’t. He just continued to scribble his notes. He wrote small and flat, making it difficult for me to read. But at this point, I didn’t care. There was more to say, ask, and talk about, but nothing civilized came to mind. The laptop remained closed and still sat near the edge of the table.
Arabella was right. Schleper was a prize-winning jerk.
Then, for some unknown reason, I considered the situation in reverse. If someone were poking his nose into my investigation and insinuating some level of ineptness, I might become a jerk, too. Had Schleper seen me as some big-city cop, proclaiming myself a know-it-all and inferring the small-town force couldn’t do their job
s?
I shook my head and walked to the door.
“One more thing, Mr. Conklin,” Schleper said before I left the room. “I have instructed Officer De Groot not to speak with you regarding this investigation.”
CHAPTER 33
IT HAD BEEN a long day, but there was still time to drive to Karpata. If someone had been working the snack shop, they might have seen or heard something. I wasn’t sure if the police had been there yet, so I called Arabella to ask, but the call went to voicemail.
Years ago, I had learned a little about drowning from the case in Rockford. Determining a drowning to be anything but an accidental death is difficult, given the nature of where a drowning occurs. Short of physical wounds on her body or a possible eyewitness, proving an unknown assailant had killed Tiffany would be an investigative challenge.
Fifteen minutes after my conversation with Schleper, I pulled into the parking lot at Karpata and walked toward Cado Snack hoping to find such a witness.
The sliding window was still open.
“Hi,” I said, poking my head through the window, into the building.
The inside was small, I guessed twelve feet by ten feet, and didn’t have electrical lighting. Ambient sunlight sneaking in through the window, along with the open back door, kept the area from being pitch dark. Shelves, stocked with packaged snacks and cans of beverages, lined one wall. Inside, the air was nearly motionless, stale, and hotter than outside. The only ventilation was a slight breeze flowing from the back door to the window. I didn’t see a chair, stool, or any place to sit.
A short, stubby woman standing next to an ice cooler dried her hands on a damp towel. Her clothes, at least two sizes too small, had random tears and dirt smudges. She wore pants and a sweat-soaked long-sleeved shirt. Hard work, many cleanings, and lots of sun had faded the colors over the years. Perspiration reflected off her forehead as she stepped to the window, smiling, and greeted me.
“Hello. What can I get you?” Her voice was cheery with a heavy accent.
“A water, please?”
“Yes …” She reached down and retrieved a bottle of water from the cooler, bits of ice and water dripping onto the floor. She set it on a shelf that extended through the window. “Two dollars, please.”
I paid her, opened the bottle, and took a swig. “My name is Roscoe Conklin, what’s yours?”
“Malfena Cado.”
“So, Malfena, you the owner?”
She nodded. “Yes, me and my husband, Ludson.”
My Wrangler was the only vehicle in the lot.
“Slow day?” I asked.
“Not so much earlier. Now, yes. But it is late. Almost closing time.” She removed the condiments, napkins, and other items from the counter and stacked them neatly on a shelf along one wall.
“Hey,” I said, purposefully raising my eyebrows. “Didn’t someone drown here the other day?”
“Yes, a young woman.” She stopped what she was doing and shook her head. “Very sad.”
“Yeah, it is.” She went back to packing things up. “Were you here when it happened?”
She continued to work. “The drowning? Yes, I was here.”
Bingo!
“What happened? Did you call the police?” She didn’t answer, continuing to pack items into the cooler that she’d take with her when she left. I sipped the water, glancing around, acting as if I had nothing but time. “How long have you and your husband been the owners?”
“We opened one year ago.”
“I’ll bet the drowning is the most exciting thing to happen since you opened.”
“Sure.” She turned and met my eyes. “If you think a young girl drowning is exciting.”
I bit my lower lip. Maybe the direct approach would be better. “Malfena, I—”
“Mr. Roscoe, I know who you are.” She set the fully packed cooler near the rear door. “Just ask me what you want to know.”
“You know me?”
“Ludson and I live in the next house to Erika. I meet you once at your office when I stop to see Erika.”
Damn small island. I swore Erika was related to half the people on Bonaire and friends with everyone else. I couldn’t possibly remember everyone. At least the air was clear between Malfena and me.
“I’m sorry. Do you mind if I ask you some questions? The woman who drowned, Tiffany, was a close friend of mine.”
“Yes, I know. Me and Erika, we talk about it.”
“I’m sure the police already asked you some of these questions.”
She shook her head. “No, the police ask me nothing.” She placed her hands on her hips, closed her eyes for a moment, and took a couple of deep breaths. “You can ask me what you want.” She opened her eyes.
“You know I found the body.”
“Yes, Erika tell me.”
“By the time I got here, you were closed for the night.”
“Yes, we have no electricity. We close and are gone before darkness.”
Tiffany was dead by dark. If Malfena was here, she had to have seen something. “Please tell me what you did the last two hours you were open.”
“I have lots of customers early in the day, but it slows down in the afternoon. I sell mostly soda, water, and chips and candy. And some hot dogs.”
“The customers, any of them wearing gear with lots of pink on it?”
“My customers usually don’t have on scuba gear. They come to me after they scuba dive and changed into clothes by their trucks.”
“Okay, how about the divers walking past your window, headed to the stairs? Any of them have pink on?”
“Mr. Roscoe,” she said shaking her head, “the diver people have all colors. I am sorry.”
“Okay, I understand. Please go on.”
“After I close, Ludson picks me up, and we drive home together. I not have a car.” She laughed. “I not even have a driver license.”
I smiled. “What time did Ludson pick you up that night?”
“I know Ludson will be late that night, so I take my time cleaning up. After I close, he still not here.”
“Do you know what time that was?”
“No. I just know Ludson is late. So, I wait and rest in this hammock.” She walked out the rear door to the side of the building. I walked around and met her in a small gravel patio area. A hammock swung in the breeze between two palm trees, near the edge of the cliff overlooking the water. A thatched wall, made of palm leaves and cactus, separated the stairs leading to the water from the patio. It also separated it from the parking lot. A person could be swinging in this hammock and never see anyone in the parking lot or on the stairs.
Of course, it worked the other way around, too.
“Did you see anything strange?”
“No. I fall asleep in the hammock right away. The breeze was nice, and I love the sound of the ocean.”
“How long were you asleep?”
“I wake up right before Ludson come to get me. That was after darkness.”
“Before you left, you didn’t look at the sea, notice her having a problem or anything?”
“No, I am sorry. It was close to dark and seeing anything on the shore or in the water from here would not be easy. It gets dark dark.”
Many of the locals repeat words. The sky is blue blue, and the parking lot is full full. Slow is poco poco. At first, I thought everyone on the island had a strange, localized form of stutter but soon learned it’s their way of placing emphasis.
“Did you hear anything?” I asked.
She shook her head. “No.”
Malfena wasn’t much help, but maybe there wasn’t any information to be had. I ran my hand over my face. “Well, that’s about it. Thanks for your time.” I looked down the street. “So Ludson will be picking you up soon, huh?”
“Yes, he will be here any minute.”
“You sure you’re okay here alone till Ludson arrives?”
“Yes, I will be fine,” she called, walking away from me. After a few steps, she sto
pped and turned around. Her eyebrows scrunched, confusion on her face. “Mr. Roscoe, I thought of something. I did not just wake up that day.”
I took a step closer to her. “You didn’t?”
“No. Something woke me up.” Her gaze fixed over my right shoulder, at a far distant point.
I took another step closer. “What do you mean something woke you up?”
“Yes, I remember now.” She tapped her index finger on her chin. “I was asleep. Then I woke up from a noise.”
“What kind of noise?”
“I think a car engine. I thought it to be Ludson, so I get out of the hammock and start walking to the building. I see a white truck go by.” She paused and stared at me a moment. “Ludson has a black truck.”
“Did you get a look at the driver?”
“Oh, no. It was already driving away. I only saw the back of it.”
“Was it a rental?”
“Yes, it was.”
“You sure?”
“Positive. It have a seahorse painted on the back.”
CHAPTER 34
ABBY’S SEASIDE TRUCK Rental occupied the end unit of a side-by-side storefront building, located on the outside perimeter of the airport parking lot, housing a string of vehicle rental agencies. A service window at each business separated the employees on the inside with the customers on the outside. By the time I stepped up to the building, the young girl working at Abby’s already peered out the opening.
“May I help you?” she asked. Her name tag read Abby, but she couldn’t have been more than sixteen or seventeen years old—too young to be the owner. She was native Bonairian with dark brown eyes and wore a simple gold cross and chain around her neck. Her dark hair flowed over a pink sun visor. Hiding the upper portion of her white capris, an untucked red tank-top with a Nike swoosh draped almost to her knees. She was sockless and wore white, low-cut Converse tennis shoes.
“Abby?”
“That’s me.”
I smiled. “You the owner?”
She shook her head. “No, my grandfather is the owner. He named the business after me, though.”
“Well, I have a few questions.”
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