The Informant (30 page)
“All the way back to a gent named Ernest Gill. And ultimately to you. That’s how the immigration officials had your name on their list, right along with Ernest Gill and Eric Venters.”
Mike nodded, understanding. “What do you intend to do with me?”
He leaned back in his chair. “I’m not going to put bamboo shoots under your fingernails, if that’s what you’re wondering. Antigua, after all, is a very civilized country. You seem very civil for an American. I’m hoping you’ll come back to the station with me on a voluntary basis to talk to our lieutenant. We’d also like you to look at the composite sketch of the killer we’ve created from the witnesses at the bank. And,” he said firmly, “we’d very much like you to submit to a polygraph examination.”
“And what if I don’t feel like cooperating?”
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“That would be a bloody shame. I feel as though I’ve been very forthcoming, and I was hoping we could conduct ourselves like gentlemen. Like I said: I can’t force you to talk to us. But by the same token, you can’t force us to keep word of your involvement to ourselves, either.”
“What are you implying?”
His voice grew lower, more serious. “Let there be no doubt that you
will
have to explain why the man who murdered two security guards in an Antiguan bank was in the process of withdrawing two hundred and fifty thousand American dollars that can be traced directly back to you. You can come with me to the station and explain it quite privately to our investigators on the case.
Or you can get on an airplane and explain it to your colleagues in the American press—who, I’m sure, would be most interested to know that I have a quite remarkable follow-up to your latest professional embarrassment concerning payments to informants.”
Mike felt a dryness in his throat, remembering how Aaron Fields had bailed out before at the first sign of bad publicity. He stared back at the smug detective, waiting for him to blink, to show some sign of bluffing. It didn’t come.
“All right,” he said without heart. “I’ll go with you.”
Dewberry smiled for the first time, albeit faintly. “I knew you’d make the right choice.”
“I didn’t know I had one,” Mike said as he started for the door.
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A squad car was waiting at the curb outside the airport with a stiff, uniformed cop behind the wheel on the English side. Mike and the detective piled into the backseat.
The tiny blue-and-white sedan merged quickly into traffic, and Mike was struggling for legroom when he caught a glimpse of his own reflection in the driver’s-side mirror.
His hair was flat, and he needed a shave. He looked tired, like a man who hadn’t slept in forty-one hours. Or was it forty-two? He set his watch ahead one hour to 1:00
P.M., local time, as they dodged the potholes on the road from the airport.
He noticed no road signs or distinguishing landmarks along the way, just flocks of white egrets dotting the flat, scrubby landscape and a few tin-roofed shacks with twisted TV antennae. Feeling lost was undoubtedly part of the island charm for tourists on scooters with no particular destination, but for a man peering out the window from the back of a police car it was just added anxiety.
At the fork in the road was a wood arrow-shaped sign nailed to a telephone pole that read, ST. JOHNS 3 KM.
“St. Johns,” said Mike. “Funny, I just came from San Juan.”
Dewberry glanced at the sign, then said dryly, “He got around.” They rode the rest of the way in silence.
The police headquarters was downtown, up the hill and away from the more touristy shopping sections along the waterfront. Dewberry escorted him directly to the interrogation room, an interior beige office with a small Formica table and four metal chairs. The walls were bare—no pictures, no clock.
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With the door closed and blinds pulled shut, it was the kind of room where, after a few hours, discerning the time of day was purely a matter of taking the interrogator’s word for it.
Mike sat on one side of the rectangular table. Dewberry sat across from him, sipping hot tea from a Styrofoam cup. For more than an hour he peppered him with questions that could easily have been asked at the airport or in the car coming over, which left Mike with the impression that he was merely softening him up for the real interrogator. Just before five o’clock entered a lanky man in his early forties who, for a cop, spoke with a very proper English accent.
“Lieutenant Brenford A. V. Scot,” he said stiffly, offering his hand.
Mike shook his hand, thinking he
looked
very much like a Brenford A. V. Scot, or at least the West Indian version thereof. He was formal and polite, with a distinct air of conceit. His thick black hair was parted on the side, and he had an affected way of brushing the long curls from his eyes every minute or so. The hairstyle seemed a bit young for a man his age, though his dark, handsome face was on the boyish side. He sat beside Dewberry, directly across the table from Mike.
“This can be a very short meeting,” said Scot. “Or it can be a very long meeting. It’s up to you, Mr. Posten.”
Mike sighed. Scot seemed to be expecting some kind of witty rejoinder, but the energy wasn’t there.
“With the aid of Interpol,” the young lieutenant continued, “it has come to our attention that you’ve 299
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written a rather smashing collection of articles about a certain serial killer. As well, we understand that some unsavory accusations have been levied against you publicly, to the effect that you’ve paid goodly sums of money to a confidential informant. True or not, we know for a fact that you did indeed deposit two hundred and fifty thousand dollars into a Citibank account for a gentleman named Ernest Gill. And of course we now know that a gentleman using the name Eric Venters killed two security guards while trying to withdraw those very same funds from the Charter Bank here in Antigua.”
Mike was stone-faced, confirming nothing.
“Now,” Scot continued, “let me tell you what we
believe.
We believe Eric Venters is Ernest Gill. We believe Ernest Gill is your informant.” He leaned forward on the table, his expression very serious. “And we believe you will tell us how to find him.”
Mike rubbed his tired face, fighting off a yawn. “Believe whatever you like. But I can’t tell you who my informant is, and I can’t tell you how to find him.”
Scot smiled politely, but without a trace of sincerity.
“Please, don’t misunderstand us, old boy. We’re not asking you to confess to having paid a confidential source.
We simply wish to know his identity.”
“I’m not refusing to tell you. I just don’t know who or where he is.”
Scot raised an eyebrow, emphasizing his skepticism.
“That’s terribly convenient, isn’t it, Mr. Posten.”
“I’m not playing games.”
“Neither are we,” said Scot.
Dewberry rose slowly and leaned across the table, 300
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glaring at Mike. “I know your type,” he said in a low, angry tone. “One of those cocky, self-righteous American journalists who like to get their face on the evening news by going to jail to protect the identity of their sources.
Well, you’d bloody well not pull those stunts with us.”
Mike returned the glare, sizing up his opponent. Dewberry seemed to be waiting for him to make a false move, just looking for an excuse to blow a gasket. Mike sensed that this was one cop who’d been skewered by a reporter or two.
Scot leaned forward, as if to separate the two of them, reeling his partner back into his chair. “What Detective Dewberry is trying to say, Mr. Posten, is that in Antigua it isn’t unheard of for journalists to land in jail. In point of fact, it was Detective Dewberry who personally arrested the editor and proprietor of a newspaper called the
Outlet
back in 1985 for a positively libelous article that accused our own government of kidnapping a child and whatnot.
The arrest caused quite the international stir—perhaps you even heard of it. Eventually, the British House of Lords overturned the jail term. However, I don’t suppose you’d care to lodge here in one of our cells until your barrister can press your appeal all the way to England.
Would you, Mr. Posten.”
Mike rolled in his seat, taking on a more aggressive posture. “Like I said, Lieutenant. I can’t reveal my source, because I don’t know who he is. But I will say this. Your very eloquent speech, complete with legal precedent, has convinced me of one thing.”
Scot smiled with his eyes, as if expecting a sporting 301
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concession of defeat from a worthy opponent. “What’s that, old boy?”
Mike looked him straight in the eye. “Even if his name were tattooed on my forehead, you’d be the last to find it.”
The conciliatory smirk ran from his face, and his face flushed red with indignation. “We’ll see about that.” He glared at Mike, then glanced at Dewberry. “Looks like we have ourselves a guest. Lock him up.”
The detective was quickly at Mike’s side, pulling him up from his chair and using more force than necessary to cuff his hands behind his back. Mike started to resist, then stopped himself and just took the pain.
“Where do you want him?” he asked the lieutenant.
Scot was still seated at the table. He looked up, paused for a moment, then narrowed his eyes. “You know where to put him.”
Mike bristled at the way they exchanged glances, like two clever insiders savoring the same thought. He didn’t give them the satisfaction, however, of asking the obvious question.
“I’d like to call my wife,” said Mike.
Dewberry ignored the request, then shoved him out the door. “Straight ahead,” he barked. He trailed right behind Mike down the hall, pushing him repeatedly on the back and shoulders, until they reached an old elevator with a metal, accordion-style gate.
“Into the lift.”
The two men entered and stood shoulder to shoulder as Dewberry yanked the gate shut and hit the button.
There was a loud hum but little sense of 302
James Grippando
movement. Mike was beginning to wonder whether they’d actually left the ground when they finally jerked to a halt on the second floor. The detective pulled back the gate and pushed him out.
With his back to the lift, Mike was surrounded by thick black bars. Dewberry prodded him forward, and their footsteps echoed off the smooth cement floor. It reminded him of a tour he’d taken of Alcatraz, except the tropical air was stale and hot. A cockroach scampered through bars, into the darkness. They stopped at the metal gate that led to the cellblock, and Dewberry removed the handcuffs.
An armed guard sat on the other side of the bars, enclosed in his own protective cage behind a panel of levers and controls. He greeted the detective with a familiar smile, then pulled a black lever. A metal tray appeared through the bars, containing a dark blue prison uniform and beach thongs.
“Put those on,” said Dewberry. “Your things go in the tray.”
Mike emptied his pockets and stripped down to his underwear, putting everything in the tray. The uniform was a little small, and it smelled like someone had been sick in it. Dewberry slapped the metal cuffs back on his wrists. The guard retrieved his belongings, then pulled another lever. The main iron gate slid open, clanking like a rickety old roller coaster.
Mike was staring straight down a dimly lit corridor. He counted twenty cells, ten on each side. Each was about the size of a typical walk-in closet. It was too dark to see inside all of them, but the nearest one seemed to be housing at least four prisoners.
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“We’re putting him with Watts,” said the detective to the guard.
The two men exchanged that same curious look he’d seen Scot give Dewberry a few minutes ago.
“Away from the bars!” the guard shouted down the hall. He pushed a button on his panel, and a bell rang out.
A low rumble filled the cellblock. In the dim lighting, Mike could see only shadows as the prisoners shuffled toward the rear of their cells. When the rumbling stopped, Dewberry nudged him from behind. Together, they started down the hall.
“Eyes straight ahead,” said Dewberry.
Mike caught a glimpse of a few prisoners as they passed each cell. One with long dreadlocks. Another naked from the waist up, covered with tattoos, another with arms like tree stumps. He felt like jail was their fraternity and they couldn’t wait to initiate him. A dryness filled his throat as he reached the end of the hall. They’d passed all twenty cells, but he had yet to meet his cellmate.
“So, which one is Watts?” he asked finally.
Dewberry nodded toward the dark gray wall—but it wasn’t the wall, Mike suddenly realized. It was a solid metal door fitted right into the wall. There was an open slot in the middle just big enough for a dinner tray.
Through it, Mike could see only darkness.
Dewberry gave the door a swift kick. A chilling shriek came from within, something primal, beginning with a piercing scream and ending with a howl.
“That’s Watts,” he said with a smirk.
Another scream, and Mike cringed. It didn’t 304
James Grippando
sound human. “This is pointless, you know. You could put me in there with Charles Manson and I still wouldn’t be able to come up with the name of my informant. I really
don’t
know.”
“Sure you don’t,” he said as he pushed him toward the door. “And if you’re still saying that in the morning, we might even believe you.”
305
l
ieutenant Scot was in his office early that morning, sitting at his desk, reviewing a signed statement taken from one of the employees of the Charter Bank. A crumbled blueberry muffin lay on a napkin to his right, beside an empty teacup and a mountain of paperwork spilling out of his in box. Lines of fatigue rimmed his eyes, but his crisp white shirt was buttoned to the wrists, and his tie was straight and knotted snugly, fit for Sunday services.
His assistant poked her head through the open doorway. “An American woman is here for Michael Posten,”
