Bahamarama, page 26
part #1 of Zack Chasteen Series
Barbara closed her eyes. I put a hand on her shoulder and she held it.
She said, “Bryce was always a strong swimmer. I’m quite sure he could have eventually swum to shore and found help. I suppose he was hoping that they wouldn’t be able to find him out there in the darkness. But Dwayne swung the boat around and they were on him in seconds. Then Dwayne had his brother take the wheel while he stood on the bow with the shotgun. They toyed with Bryce, taunting him, laughing. Dwayne fired the gun several times, purposely missing Bryce, turning him this way and that until he was gasping and choking and . . .”
Barbara stopped. She dabbed at her eyes, took a deep breath.
“Dwayne asked Bryce if he wanted back on the boat. Bryce said yes. At that point he could barely stay afloat. Dwayne let him reach up and hold on to the side of the boat. That’s when he shot him.”
Barbara cried. I held her until she stopped. I looked at Pederson.
“You heard everything you need to hear?”
“Pretty much,” he said. “Of course, there’s still a few details I’m not clear on.”
“Me, too. But I think I know someone who can fill in the gaps.”
I stepped across the room and stood in front of the wheelchair.
“Don’t you harm her,” said Zoe.
“Wouldn’t think of it,” I said.
The figure in the wheelchair sat erect, eyes fixed on the other side of the room. I reached down and tugged loose a piece of the gauze that was wrapped around her head. She didn’t try to stop me. Neither did Zoe. I unwound the gauze, revealing close-cropped brown hair, then a forehead, big brown eyes, high cheeks, a nose, a mouth, a chin . . . and not a scar on her. She was gorgeous.
“Why, if it isn’t Cheri Swanson,” I said. “Got anything you’d like to add?”
60
It took a while. At first, all Barbara wanted was sleep and for me to hold her. And then more sleep. No objections on my part. I was worn out, too. We were staying at the Albury, back in Hibiscus Cottage, the only guests at the place. Barbara didn’t talk much. At least, not about what had happened. Just general, all-purpose comments. “It’s lovely out,” she’d say. Or, “Oh, look, there’s a jay in the allamandas.” Or, “That Mr. Pindle, he’s such a dear.”
But slowly she came around. The long silences became less frequent. She began to laugh again, even at my lousy jokes. On the second night, we popped the Schramsberg ’98 and slow-danced to songs from an oldie-goldies station out of Miami. Then we made love. It was as sweet as I could possibly imagine. Afterwards, we nestled together in bed, close as close could be, the jalousie windows open, and the ocean breeze blowing fresh and true.
I told her that Lynfield Pederson had released Bryce Gannon’s body to the British consulate.
“It’s being flown back to London for burial,” I said.
We were quiet awhile.
Finally, she said, “The cave was absolutely wretched. The horrid smell, all those bats. They flew in and out, twice a day, like clockwork. And their squealing, my god, I fear I shall never be able to get it out of my mind.”
She shuddered, then rolled over and tucked her head under my chin.
I said, “I really didn’t expect Lord Downey to survive it.”
“Nor did I, not at first. But it was all those drugs, that’s what was dragging him down. Being in the cave was like detox for him. He actually seemed to get stronger by the day, more and more lucid. Once, at the very end, the same night the storm hit, he looked at me and said, ‘I’ve lost her, haven’t I?’ He knew Burma was dead.”
I said, “They found her body this morning.”
“Where?”
“In a cave, not far from the one where Dwayne took you,” I said. “Pederson had to call in help from Nassau, but not before he sat down with Cheri Swanson and convinced her that it was in her best interest to tell him everything she knew.”
“So Zoe killed Burma?”
“It was a fit of rage, jealousy. Zoe was in love with Cheri. They’d been living together in Fort Lauderdale while Cheri danced at different clubs. Burma Downey began frequenting Ruby Booby’s and it wasn’t long before she fell for Cheri, too. The three of them started hanging out, Burma footing the bill for them to visit her here on Harbour Island, Cheri and Zoe envisioning a never-ending meal ticket. They kept pressing Burma to milk more and more money out of her father, money he didn’t have.”
Barbara said, “But they didn’t know that.”
“No, because Burma was too proud, too vain to tell them the truth. And so they began to argue. One night, after they had been out partying and drinking at the Albury, Zoe fell asleep on the couch, and when she went back to the bedroom, there was Burma, in the sack with Cheri, the two of them going at it. Zoe lost it, completely lost it. According to Pederson, the cause of death was strangulation, but there were bruises all over her body. Zoe just beat hell out of her.”
“And that’s when they hatched the story about Burma being in the automobile accident?”
“Uh-huh. They got Dwayne Crowe to hide Burma’s body in the cave, with the promise that they would cut him in on whatever they managed to worm out of Lord Downey.”
There was just enough Schramsberg left for us each to have half a glass. I got up and poured it. Then I lay back down beside Barbara.
She said, “So, tell me. What led you to suspect that Burma wasn’t really Burma?”
“The handwriting,” I said.
“You mean, you compared Cheri Swanson’s handwriting with that of Burma Downey’s?”
“No,” I said. “With yours.”
She sat up and looked at me.
“With mine? Whatever for?”
“It’s a British thing.” I opened a drawer on the bedside table. I pulled out the note Barbara had written, the one Dwayne had delivered when he picked me up at Baypoint. And I pulled out the two notes Burma Downey had supposedly written to describe her alleged cell phone conversations with the kidnappers. I showed them both to Barbara. “You Brits cross your Z’s when you write.”
“They’re zeds, not Z’s,” said Barbara.
“Whatever. You draw that little line across the middle of them. And you also cross your sevens.”
“That is so they will not be mistaken for ones. It’s only common sense.”
“Hey, you can cross the whole damn alphabet and all the numbers up to a zillion as far as I’m concerned,” I said. “Plus, you Brits spell ‘organized’ with an ‘s.’”
“The way it is supposed to be spelled.”
“Only, in the note that was allegedly from Burma Downey, it was spelled the American way, with a ‘z,’” I said. “But Burma Downey was British. She was well educated . . .”
“We attended the same secondary schools—years apart, of course.”
“Yes, Chrissie Hineman mentioned that. Which is eventually what got me thinking,” I said. “The story about Burma having a crushed larynx could account for Cheri not speaking, meaning she didn’t have to fake a British accent. Even if she were very good at it, she probably couldn’t have fooled Lord Downey. But something was off with the notes that she wrote. It just took a while for it to sink in.”
Barbara drained her champagne and put the glass on the bedside table. She sat on the side of the bed.
“What now?” she said.
“Your call. I’ve got no plans,” I said. “Just glad to be with you, baby.”
She got up and walked across the room and turned up the radio. Van Morrison was singing “Have I Told You Lately That I Love You?” She held out her arms.
“Let’s dance.”
61
Every day was a better day for Barbara. I knew for sure she’d be alright the afternoon she borrowed Chrissie Hineman’s computer to check her e-mails and send memos to the staff back at Orb Media.
The next morning, a FedEx package arrived, sent by Steffie Plank. Barbara opened it to find page proofs of the photo shoot on Harbour Island. The headline said “Bahamarama” and the opening spread showed three of the models holding hands and leaping over the waves in front of the Bahama Sands. The shot could have been a tired cliché—I’d seen the same setup countless times before—but Bryce Gannon had pulled it off with style and flourish. The water was gorgeous, the sand pinker than pink, the models full of joy and life. All the other shots were just as good.
When Barbara finished looking at them, she said, “I’d like to have a little party. Just to celebrate. That alright with you?”
“Fine by me. What are we celebrating?”
She held up the page proofs.
“This,” she said. “Bryce would have been proud of it.”
“He did a great job.”
Barbara nodded.
“You did, too,” she said. “That’s the other thing I want to celebrate—you, Zack. And me.”
“You and me?”
“I love the sound of that,” she said.
She gave me a hug.
“I want to celebrate everything,” she said.
We gathered on Miz Blitz. Lord Downey couldn’t make it, having flown to London to attend a memorial service for Burma. But Lynfield Pederson was there, with Clarissa and Momma Percival. Brindley brought a girlfriend—one of the models, as it turned out. Chrissie and Charlie Hineman showed up with Mr. Pindle in tow. Nixon Styles was there with his family, and he helped Boggy and me with the cooking. We grilled lobsters and passed them around and everyone ate them with their hands. There was a big bowl of conch salad and a plateful of sliced Eleuthera pineapple. There was lots of rum and lots of beer. We toasted everything and everyone. And then we danced.
It was after eleven when Barbara and I got back to the Albury. She was in bed and I was brushing my teeth when I heard the knock at the door. Barbara hopped out of bed and opened it. I heard Mr. Pindle tell her I had a telephone call.
Barbara said, “Please, just take a message.”
“Already tried that,” said Mr. Pindle. “This man says he has to speak with Mr. Chasteen right this moment. Says Mr. Chasteen’s been waiting for him to call.”
“Zack?” said Barbara. “Do you have any idea who it could be?”
I did. And it turned out to be just who I thought it was.
“Your business there, it is finished?” asked Victor Ortiz, after I picked up the phone.
“Almost.”
“It worked out in your favor?”
“Uh-huh, I was lucky.”
“Yes, indeed, you are a lucky man. And soon, if we can come to some agreement, you may also be a rich man.”
“How rich?”
“Oh, perhaps a half-million dollars.”
“That’s not so rich.”
“It is a half-million dollars more than you have now, is it not?”
“Might be. But it’s not even a down payment for settling up on what you put me through,” I said. “You still think I’ve got something of yours, Ortiz?”
“Yes. Or, at the very least, you know where that something might be. Either way I will make it worth your while. I always intended to pay you for your services.”
“You’ll never have enough money for that,” I said. “Why don’t you tell me what this thing is that I am supposed to have, and maybe we can save us both a lot of time and trouble?”
“No, no. It is not that easy. If you knew, then you would have it and I would not, and then maybe I would not get it back, don’t you see?” Ortiz said. “But you return to your home soon, no?”
“Pretty soon.”
“Three days maybe?”
“That sounds about right.”
“Good,” said Victor Ortiz. “You will hear from me then.”
“I don’t want to hear from you, Ortiz. I want to see you. I want to look you in the eye.”
“I am afraid that cannot happen.”
“Then I’m afraid we don’t have a deal.”
“I can make it very difficult for you.”
“You’ve already made it difficult. If you think you can make it any worse, then bring it on.”
There was a long pause.
Ortiz said, “OK, then. Three days from now. At your home. In the evening. You will be there?”
“Bet your ass,” I said.
62
Two days later, as the sun was going down, Boggy and I chugged through Coronado Inlet on Miz Blitz and pointed her south on the Intracoastal toward LaDonna. Barbara had flown home the morning after the party and was busy getting the next issue of Tropics ready for press. I was missing her something fierce.
The crossing from the Bahamas had been smooth and uneventful. Except for the fishing. We kept four lines rigged with ballyhoo and trolled all the way from Pinders Point, on Grand Bahama, to the mouth of the inlet, a sixteen-hour run. We had twelve dolphin, six kings, and a wahoo to show for it. We’d stuffed ourselves on fresh-from-the-water ceviche, and more fine meals were in our immediate future. What we couldn’t eat or fit into the smoker to eat later, I’d sell to Bob at Ocean’s Seafood. Might help pay for some of my gas. I’d gone through all the money Barbara had given me and most of the two thousand five hundred dollars that Tom Burleson had paid me for the sago palm. I was planning on paying Barbara back. I just hadn’t worked out the logistics of how and when.
It was hard to miss the wrath that Hurricane Curt had wrought. The worst of it was on the back side of Minorca Beach. The storm had raked past during a high tide. Few docks or seawalls had escaped damage and roofs were off a couple of houses. Boggy took the helm as we pulled close to LaDonna and I stood on the bow. Some trees were down, mostly oaks and pine along the edge of the property. The FOR SALE signs were still standing. The house looked fine. And, except for a swath of missing shingles on its roof, so did the boathouse. But the seawall . . .
I walked back to the helm.
“You’re going to love this,” I told Boggy. “All that work you did patching up after the last storm? Por noda, bubba. We’re going to have to do it all over again.”
“Why? The new owners, let them take care of it.”
“There aren’t going to be any new owners,” I said. “This is where I live. It’s not for sale.”
Boggy turned and looked at me. He put a hand on my shoulder and smiled. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to.
We put Miz Blitz in her slip and walked along the seawall. At least half of it—a thirty-yard stretch or more—had crumbled in the storm surge, exposing all the castoff junk, the flotsam and jetsam that Boggy had used to reinforce the concrete. I saw rusty wheel rims and pieces of corrugated tin and the blades of old lawnmowers.
Boggy said, “I try to save some money, doing it that way.”
“Yeah, well, this time I think we’ll pop to hire someone to come out here and wire it in right for us, use some reinforced steel, put in baffles and pilings.”
I was already calculating how many palm trees I’d have to sell to pay for a new seawall. I was probably looking at twenty thousand dollars’ worth of repairs, easy. Then I had to start paying back Barbara for the lawyers’ bills and everything else she’d bankrolled. Time to get cranking.
We were walking away when I spotted the scuba tanks. There were thirty or forty of them, various tanks that I had accumulated over the years and then retired and stashed away when newer, sleeker models had come on the market. Boggy had set the tanks smack dab in the middle of the seawall, about a foot apart, and then poured concrete around them. It wasn’t a bad idea. It just hadn’t taken into account the fury of a monster hurricane. Some of the tanks were silver, some were green, and some were red. But it was the ten black tanks that caught my attention.
“Those the tanks that Victor Ortiz bought after we put in at West End that night, the ones he and his pals hauled back to the boat?”
Boggy nodded. He said, “They were still on the boat after the auction. Old tanks, no good, very heavy. I put them in the seawall with the others.”
I kneeled down to give one of the tanks a closer look. The cracking concrete had banged it up and scraped off some of the black paint. I got out my pocketknife and scraped off more paint.
What lay beneath glittered. And I was pretty sure that it was gold.
63
We worked all that night and into the early morning, hammering away at concrete and prying out the ten black tanks. We pulled out the other tanks, too. There were thirty-four of them altogether. The black tanks were heavier than any of them, a good eighty pounds apiece. I found a couple of gallons of black paint in the boathouse. It didn’t take long for us to paint all of the tanks the same color. When we were finished it was hard to tell which ones had belonged to Victor Ortiz.
Once we were done with that and had stood the tanks up to dry, I started making phone calls. It took a while to get in touch with everyone I needed to speak to, but by midafternoon I’d checked off all the names on my list and told each of them exactly how I wanted them to proceed. There was some bitching, some hemming and hawing, but in the end everyone came around to my way of thinking. Mainly because time was short and they were hard-pressed to come up with a better plan. It was now or never.
Chances were that Victor Ortiz had at least one of his men watching us from the moment we had returned to LaDonna. But I was counting on Ortiz to have given strict orders that no one was to make a move until he got there. So we made a stack of tanks in the backyard, piled them like cordwood in the middle of the grassy slope that ran behind the house to the river. It was wide open there, easy to see, and easy to be seen. We pulled up a couple old Adirondack chairs and a cooler with bottles of water in it. And then we sat down and waited.
It was just a couple of days before the full moon. The shrimp were running, making their exodus from the brackish backwaters to the ocean. Long before dusk, there were already dozens of boats out on the lagoon with lights hanging over their sides to attract the shrimp, and long-handled nets for scooping them in. So, when three more boats glided in at sunset and anchored at fifty-yard intervals along the far bank, they didn’t look out of place. Just local boys enjoying an evening of dippin’ and drinkin,’ maybe bringing home a few pounds of shrimp to help fatten up the family. I wasn’t sure who was in which boat. I’d just told them to make sure the boats weren’t government issue and didn’t look alike. They’d done that. One was a Boston Whaler, one was a Carolina Skiff, and the third was a Mako 17. It looked like there were three guys in each of them, no telling how many others sitting back, waiting to get the call.
