Bob Morris_Zack Chasteen 02 (15 page)

“But what if the store owner doesn’t back any of the parties, doesn’t have any opinion about politics?”

It brought snickers from all three of them.

Otee said, “Dis Jamaica, mon, everyone he got an opinion. Ain’t no one sits on da damn fence like dey do where you come from. Here, everyone dey with one party or da other. And dey like to advertise it.”

“The politicians are always making speeches condemning the gangs, saying they’re against the violence, claiming their party has nothing to do with it,” said Dunwood. “But at the same time they got their henchmen out on the street paying this gang for allegiance, promising another gang they’ll do something for them. Politicians figure they got juice on the street then it gives them juice at the polls.”

I looked at Alan Whitehall.

“You got henchmen out on the streets?”

He smiled.

“Just you and Otee,” he said.

“But your party, the PNP, it pays off the gangs like Dunwood here says?”

“It’s something I prefer not to know about,” he said. “The system isn’t perfect. I’m trying to do what I can to change it.”

“Here’s what it all boils down to, Mr. Chasteen,” Eustace Dunwood said, “Kenya Oompong is Mr. Whitehall’s opponent and the head of the NPU. Something happens to Mr. Whitehall and everyone is going to say the NPU was behind it.”

“Still,” I said, “why would the guys who stopped us on the road wear those bandannas? It just doesn’t fit for me.”

“Because the NPU is new on the scene. Trying to make a name for itself. Since they’re going to get the blame no matter what, why not wear the colors, just go ahead and underline it?”

“Gives them some street cred,” I said. “Makes them seem bold and badass.”

“Exactly,” said Dunwood. He looked at Alan Whitehall. “You want me to haul in Kenya Oompong, all of us sit down, ask her what she knows about this?”

“No,” Alan said. “She’ll just call a press conference, bring in
the newspaper and the TV cameras, say she’s being set up for something she didn’t do. It would be like throwing fat on the fire.”

Dunwood folded his arms across his chest and thought about it. Didn’t seem to give him much pleasure.

“Guess all we can do is see how it plays out. Figure out who those two boys were, ask some questions, see where that white van came from. Get lucky, maybe we can find the third one, the one driving that Toyota truck.” He looked at Otee. “You get me the serial numbers of the Glocks that were stolen and we’ll compare them against the ones those two were carrying.”

Otee nodded.

“I’ll call you first thing in the morning,” he said.

“One more thing,” I said. “Them trying to hijack us up there on the road, grab Alan, do whatever they were going to do . . . what does that have to do with the bombs?”

No one said anything. Finally it was Alan who spoke.

“I really can’t see how it’s connected. I still don’t think the NPU had anything to do with the bombs.”

“I agree,” said Dunwood. “Think we have two different things going on here. We got someone messing with Darcy Whitehall. And we got someone else messing with his son.”

Dunwood stood. So did we. He stepped from behind his desk and opened his office door. As we left, he put a hand on Alan’s shoulder.

“Like I told you, we’ll do what we can. Still, you know how it goes once things like this get started. People want to get even, match things tit for tat. Best watch yourselves,” he said.

It was almost 10
P.M.
before we got back to Libido. We went straight to Darcy Whitehall’s house to let him know what had happened.

“He’s in his office, on the phone,” said the security guard who’d been assigned to the house.

Call me insecure, but I had the distinct feeling Darcy Whitehall was avoiding me. Still, I couldn’t let that get in the way of what needed to be done.

“Come on,” I told Alan. “We’re going to get your sister.”

“What for?”

“I’ll explain once we get down there,” I said.

Otee went with us as we took a golf cart down the hill to Ali’s house. The lights were on, and Ali was busy at her easel, working on a sketch when we knocked at the door. She spun around, surprised. She was wearing a black, floor-length gown with ruffles and sequins, something fit for a fancy ball.

“That’s one of mother’s gowns,” Alan said.

Ali bristled at his words.

“I like to wear it sometimes when I’m working. I find it inspiring,” she said. “If you don’t mind.”

“No, no, I just didn’t know you had it, that’s all,” Alan said. “I thought all Mother’s things had been . . .”

“What, thrown out? Burned? Destroyed? Purged from the face of the earth?”

Ali was dragging out the family laundry, and Alan was quite obviously embarrassed by it. He started to say something, but held back. He stepped onto the porch. Otee joined him.

I sat Ali down on the couch and told her about what had happened on the road back from Benton Town.

“Oh my God,” she said when I was done. “Who were they?”

“Still trying to figure that out,” I said. “Maybe NPU.”

She clenched her jaw.

“My brother and his goddam politics. I don’t care what he says, this whole thing—the bombs, Monk dying—it’s all because of him. Isn’t it?”

I didn’t have the answer to that. I left her on the couch and went out on the porch.

“How many security guards does the resort have?” I asked Otee.

“Be something like forty to fifty, working eight-hour shifts,” he said.

“We need to beef it up,” I said. “I want you to call security, tell them there’ll be twelve-hour shifts starting immediately. More patrols, no one just sitting around in the guardhouses. Then I want you to tell them to send four guards up to Mr. Whitehall’s house as soon as they can get there.”

“Dem boys gonna want extra pay,” Otee said.

“Tell them they’ll get it.” I was playing fast and loose with Darcy Whitehall’s money, but what could he do, fire me? “Just make sure they get someone up to Mr. Whitehall’s house right now.”

Otee went off to use the phone, and Ali stepped onto the porch to see what was up.

“I want you to get your things,” I told her.

“What things?”

“Whatever it is you need to spend the night up in your father’s house.”

“I’m not spending the night up there,” she said.

“Yes, you are. And you’ll be staying up there until everything settles down,” I said. “So will you, Alan. I want everyone
in one place, not spread out all over the property. After what happened today, I want someone keeping an eye on all of you, all the time.”

“There’s no way I’m staying up there with . . .”

“Just go do it, Ali,” Alan said, cutting her off.

She left in a huff.

“I apologize for my sister’s behavior,” Alan said. “Old wounds.”

“Every family’s got them.”

“Yeah, but ours seem to run deeper than most.”

Before he could offer any more than that, Otee returned from using the phone.

“Dey sending guards up to Mr. Whitehall’s house right now. Want to know if dey can send up someone else with dem.”

“Someone else?” I said.

“Yah, mon,” said Otee. “Fellah from the embassy. Said it was important that he see you.”

It took Ali longer than it should have to put her things together, her way of registering displeasure about the unwanted sleepover. Which meant Jay Skingle and the security guards had been waiting for us several minutes when we arrived at Darcy Whitehall’s house. Skingle looked very official, from his dark suit and striped tie down to his peeved, screw-faced expression, his way of registering displeasure about us wasting his precious time.

I introduced Skingle to Ali and Alan, and then the two of them stepped inside with Otee and the guards while I spoke with Skingle in the driveway.

Skingle held a dull gray metal canister, about the size of a thermos jug. I had a pretty good idea what was in it.

“There was very little in the way of remains, shredded clothing, not much more,” Skingle said. “Still, the family generally likes to have something. I wanted to get it to you so that you might proceed with the final arrangements at your earliest convenience.”

He handed me the metal canister. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Gave me the chills. I didn’t want to think about it.

“There were a couple other things,” I said. “Monk’s wallet, his Super Bowl ring.”

“I assume that’s still part of the investigation. I’ll inquire about it and get back to you,” he said. “I did take the liberty of notifying the Department of Veteran Affairs on the family’s behalf. Mr. DeVane is eligible for interment at a national cemetery, should the family so desire. Do you know what they’ve decided?”

“Haven’t had a chance to speak to anyone about it since yesterday,” I said.

“It’s really not a good idea to dawdle in matters such as these, Mr. Chasteen,” he said. “I suggest you move forward with all due speed.”

So young, and already so very pompous. The guy had a brilliant future doing government work.

“Just one more thing,” said Skingle. “A formality.”

He reached inside a coat pocket and pulled out some legal papers. We moved under a light by the front door of the house so we could see them better.

“I just want to look through these one more time, make sure everything is here,” Skingle said.

There were several pages and he took his sweet time looking at them. Minutes passed. Seemed to me that he was the one who was dawdling, but what the heck did I know?

He handed the papers to me.

“Please read these over carefully,” he said. “Then sign where I’ve indicated.”

I read the papers, perhaps not as carefully as Skingle might have liked, but most of it was just boilerplate legalese and didn’t bear a word-by-word inspection. A release form for Monk’s remains. A “Statement of Death” issued by the Jamaican government.

“Make sure you show them that when you go through airport security,” said Skingle. “That way they might not make you open up the canister.”

I signed the papers. Skingle tucked them away.

“So,” he said. “When’s your flight out?”

“Don’t have anything booked yet.”

Skingle made a face. This simply would not do.

“I’ll pull what strings I can and see if we can’t get you something early tomorrow morning.”

“Don’t bother. I’ll handle it.”

“Well, please see that you do,” he said. “By the way, it’s really not necessary for you to return.”

“Oh?”

“Believe me, there’s nothing you can do. Just let my office and the Jamaican authorities do our jobs. I will personally keep you posted regarding our progress.”

“Personally? You mean we can exchange home phone numbers and stuff like that?”

“No reason for you to make this difficult, Chasteen.”

“You’re right. So, personally speaking, what sort of progress have you and the authorities made so far?”

“You have to understand, these things take time,” Skingle said.

“Something I’ve got plenty of. Might as well spend it here.”

“I really don’t think that’s a good idea. Particularly if it leads to episodes like the one today up in the mountains. Jamaican-on-Jamaican crime is one thing, happens every day. But when a U.S. citizen is involved it is quite another. You can’t imagine what sort of problems it has caused our office. It would have been even worse had you managed to get yourself killed.”

“That really would have created a lot of extra paperwork for you, huh?”

Skingle narrowed his eyes. I think it meant he was trying to look tough. He didn’t have the face for it.

“I don’t appreciate your sarcasm, Mr. Chasteen.”

“Somehow I’ll find a way to live with that.”

Skingle put a hand to his mouth and coughed, like some people do when they can’t think of what to say.

“Well then,” he said, straightening his tie, “I suppose I should be going.”

“With all due speed,” I said.

I like to flatter myself by thinking I’m a man of action and decisiveness, but at that particular moment, watching Jay Skingle walk away while I was cradling a canister that contained the meager remains of an old friend, I wasn’t sure which way to go, or what to do. I needed to get back on track. I needed to come up with some kind of game plan, not just stand there immobile in the driveway. I started kicking things around in my head, hoping maybe that would jump-start me.

I wondered why Skingle was so anxious for me to leave Jamaica. I didn’t have an answer for it, other than the fact that he didn’t like me and I didn’t like him. Little boy stuff. If we were in third grade we could have met each other on the playground after school and duked it out and probably wound up best friends. Nah, I take that back. Skingle was a born prick, nobody’s best friend. I would have preferred to just beat the hell out of him and been done with it.

I wondered why Darcy Whitehall was acting the way he was. I felt sure he was holding out about something, something that might put matters into perspective, something that might explain why bombs were exploding and people were dying. I wanted to squeeze it out of him. But I didn’t want to go sit inside
his house. Too much sticky business, some weird family vibe. Best to let it air out, at least for the night.

I wondered about Monk. How had he managed to get hooked up with Darcy Whitehall in the first place? There were some big gaps in Monk’s life, and more than a few indiscretions. What had led him here? Would those files in the dresser back at his cottage help explain anything?

I wondered about the two dead guys. Had they and their partner dreamed up the plan to waylay our car and snatch Alan? Or had someone else been behind it? If someone else, then what other sort of mayhem might they now be plotting? And would the shoot-out set off a round of political revenge that would get even uglier?

I wondered if there was anything that tied all this stuff together. From the skybox in Gainesville to the airport parking lot to the dirt road near Benton Town—how could it all possibly be related? I didn’t see how it could.

Eustace Dunwood and Alan Whitehall were right. There were two separate things going on. Had to be. Because if they were wrong, if it really was all tied together, then whoever was behind it had more resources than any of us did, orchestrating acts of bedevilment and violence from Florida to Jamaica, acts that, even if they misfired, required a certain degree of logistical finesse and know-how. Just what the hell was going on?