The Nassau Secret (The Lang Reilly Series Book 8) (3 page)

              “Have you gone to the police?”

              A snort from which the distance did little to remove the contempt. “Police! LOL! All they say is ‘Lady, we con do nuthin’ till she be gone leas’ a day.’ I think the guy was smoking something.”

              Both the accent and supposition could be accurate in Lang’s experience. “Exactly what is it you want me to do, Celeste? I mean, the straight on odds are Livia’ll come sauntering through the door any minute.”  

              A sigh. “Maybe so. But five hours. . .?”

              Two of the lights on Lang’s phone were blinking, two calls holding. Being brusque, particularly with someone who had done him the journalistic favors Celeste had, wasn’t something he wanted to do; but, after all, there was a law practice to run. “Tell you what, Celeste, you haven’t heard from Livia by. . .” He checked his watch. “By, say, 5:00 pm, give me a call and we’ll decide what I can do to help.” 

              She was hardly mollified but agreed.        

5.

472 Lafayette Drive

Atlanta, Georgia

7:46 pm

That Same day

             
Since he had not heard from her, Celeste and her missing partnerhad slipped from Lang Reilly’s mind, dismissed with the certainty Livia had returned or at least been in contact.

              There were other things to think about. Like Father Francis Narumba, cross legged on the floor, locked in mortal video combat with Lang’s seven-year-old son Manfred as the sounds of Pokeman X drowned out a much prized 78 of
Dark Town Strutters Ball
. Oh well, Lang could imagine the alto sax Jimmy Dorsey played in lieu of his usual clarinet. The old vinyl records he collected preserved the fidelity of sound far better than contemporary CDs. He could also imagine the tangy taste of the pork loin now grilling outside. One of Gurt’s favorites. Marinated in honey, Dijon mustard and sprinkled with chili powder, it would come with red cabbage and spaetzle. Fortunately for Lang, he had learned to enjoy German cooking. Make that
most
German cooking. Blood sausage was a bit much.  

              He crossed the room to refill his glass, pausing to look a question at Francis. “
Quid Faciendun?”

             
Headed for law school, Lang had majored in Latin in college as a lark. As an ordained Catholic priest, Francis was more than familiar with the language.

             
Francis held up his glass, “What’s to be done? Well,
In vino veritas
.”

              Lang grinned. The two fiends played a game of swapping Latin aphorisms, “There is indeed truth in wine, probably even more in this this single malt scotch.”

              The house’s kitchen opened into both dining room and the den where the two men were. Gurt stood in the latter doorway.

              “Time to remove from the grill the pork loin. Dinner is ready.”

              “Awww,” Manfred complained, getting to his feet. “Just when I was winning.”

              The movement awakened a large shaggy dog who had been snoring gently on the hearth of the empty fireplace. He shook himself as though wet before following Manfred into the dining room. Feeding Grumps from the table was forbidden, but dogs are unmitigated optimists by nature and an occasional  morsel or two might actually drop from the table.

              Manfred grudgingly climbed into his booster chair. His unshared opinion was that he was too old for such remnants of his infancy.

              Gurt nodded her thanks as Francis seated her at the foot of the old, scarred refectory table Lang had rescued from a Spanish monastery. Francis always imagined hooded monks seated around it, perhaps Benedictines in black, heads bowed as they chanted grace over bowls of a simple repast:

                 Benedic Domine nos et haec. . .
   

              And he
was
grateful, too. Born amid the poverty, disease and endless civil wars indigenous to West Africa, a missionary had recognized the intellect of the underfed and parasite-ridden child whose parents and siblings had been slaughtered in one of the ceaseless tribal conflicts. Years in Catholic school, college and seminary in Lubumbashi in the Democratic Republic of Congo had demonstrated an ability with linguistics in addition to the more arcane theological subjects. A priest was needed to minister to the growing African population of a city in America, Atlanta. Two years junior to the resident priest, a native of Nigeria, and the church was Francis’s. Not Atlanta’s most prestigious parish, either in location or wealth but a flock Francis was happy to shepherd.

              Inexplicably, Janet Holt, Lang’s sister, and her adopted son had appeared in the otherwise black congregation. She never explained her choice to Lang and Francis never asked. After her and her son’s death in fiery explosion in Paris, Francis had given some modicum of solace to Lang in spite of the latter’s less-than-favorable opinions of religion and the usefulness thereof. The two subsequently became the best if most unlikely of friends.

              Thankful was the right word, Francis thought as Lang set down on the table a steaming platter and began to carve the roast. The aroma made the priest’s mouth water. Yes, Thankful. Thankful God had seen fit to place him in this bounteous country where Francis’s stomach never cramped from hunger nor his bowels became liquid from disease, thankful for the frequent invitations for dinner in this house, dinners that would make it unnecessary to let go the parish house cook, poor Nyanath, late of Sudan, whose culinary skills began and ended with boiling rice and other small grains. The woman had a small child to care for while she took English lessons and could ill afford to lose even the pittance of a salary the church could afford. Francis would eat endless meals of mush first.

              Thankful.

              “Your shot at the blessing, Francis,” Lang boomed, shattering Francis’s thoughts. “As long as it’s brief enough not to let the roast get cold.”

              Francis was quite sure the blessings he said were the only ones offered in this house, but he appreciated his friend’s sensitivity in asking for one. He kept it short.

              “And let me win at Pokeman X after dinner,” Manfred ad-libbed.

              No one said anything, but his mother’s glare of disapproval guaranteed she would later.

              “It’s OK,” Francis said, reading her expression while adding generous helpings of roasted pork, red cabbage and spaetzle to his plate. “The child meant no disrespect.”

              Lang cocked an eye at his friend. “Besides, if you don’t pray for it, you might not get it.
Bene orasse est bene studuisse.”

             
Francis smiled. “One tends to forget the last part: ‘To have prayed well is to have striven well.’ I assure you, your son needs no Devine intervention when it comes to computer games.”

              Lang’s iPhone rang, earning anther disapproving look from Gurt. “I thought we agreed phones off during dinner.”

              Lang glanced at the number on the screen. “Guess I forgot. He stood. “I need to take this.”

              He stepped into the hall. “Yes, Celeste. She showed up, did she?”

              There was a pause not attributable to the reception. “No, Lang, she hasn’t.”

              “But. . .”

              “I went downtown and asked around. The lady at the library remembered a tall American blonde who had an interest in the pictures and stuff from some murder trial here seventy years ago involving some pretty prominent people. Just the sort of thing that would catch Livia’s attention. I had to drag her away from the television during all those months that horrible woman was on trial in Arizona, the one who stabbed, shot and slashed her boyfriend over fifty times and then claimed self-defense.”

              “Jodi Arias,” Lang supplied.

              “That’s the one. And she reads everything she can find about the Lindbergh kidnapping and murder. She even collects memorabilia. Like a couple of the phony ransom notes the Linberghs received after their child was kidnapped. You know, back in the Thirties. She’s convinced Bruno Hauptman was innocent. She has a couple of the pens Johnny Cochran used to take notes at the O.J. Simpson murder trial, a cigar clipper Clarence Darrow supposedly carried when he argued the Loeb-Leopold case. Stuff like that.”

              “Where do you go to collect that sort of thing?”

              “On the internet. I’d bet a good part of it’s fake or stolen.”

              “Any chance she took something from the exhibit?”

              “Like I said this afternoon, I was bored, didn’t pay any attention. It’s possible, I suppose, though I’ve never known Livia to steal. She does love anything pertaining to a famous murder, though.”

              Not entirely candid. There had been that strip of bloody cloth from the Fall River museum that had been from Lizzie Borden’s father’s shirt when he was hacked to death by an ax in 1892. Celeste had demanded Livia return it and swear never to take something like that again. Surely she hadn’t. . .

              She continued, “Anyway, the librarian here identified Livia from a picture on my cell phone I took this morning. Reason I didn’t call you sooner, the lady pointed out which way she went when she left the library and I went to check out the stores. A woman in a drug store a few doors down remembered selling her sun block but after that. . . nothing. It was like the ground swallowed her up or something. I just got back to the hotel.”

              Lang was thinking. With his court calendar, the last thing he needed to do was try and squeeze in a trip to the Bahamas. “Stand by. I’ll call you back within an hour.”

              “But, what are you going to do?”

              Lang hadn’t the foggiest idea. “I’ll tell you when I call back.”

              “Lang?” Gurt was standing in the hall behind him. “The meal becomes cold. Besides, Manfred is forbidden to take calls during meals. You are not setting an example.”

              Lang was still holding his iPhone. “When Manfred starts supporting this family. I’ll reconsider. In the meantime, I apologize but business puts that food on the table.”

              A little disingenuous, perhaps, since he wasn’t actually representing Celeste in what he was about to do. But what the hell? A good relationship with the media was the best advertising he could get.

              She started to say something, thought better of it and disappeared back into the dining room.

              Lang called up “contacts” on the small screen and scrolled down to a name.

              The phone was answered on the second ring. “Hello, Lang. McGrath here.”

              Almost all criminal lawyers employ private investigators. Phil McGrath had been Lang’s since the previous one had died in a dubious accident ten years ago. McGrath was a former FBI agent with any number of convenient contacts in both state and federal government.

              “Evening Phil. How’d you like a trip to the Bahamas?”

              “If you’d suggested it this past winter, I’d been a lot more excited.”

              “A friend of a friend seems to have gone missing in Nassau.”

              “And is this friend paying or do I look to you for my conch chowder?”

              “Nothing like getting the important stuff like the who, what, where out of the way first.”

              “I learned from a master about getting paid. I’m talking to him.”   

              “
Touché
. The woman you need to contact is Celeste Harper. I’m going to give you her cell number. Tell her I asked you to call. She should be able to pay for your services. Don’t be too much of a gentleman to ask.”

              “Have I ever been?”

              “If there’s any problem, call me back.”

              “Depend on it.”

              After reciting the phone number, Lang wished his investigator a nice evening, clicked off and headed back to the dining room. Celeste should be in a position to pay. Now the he had lateralled her off to Phil, his only worry was that dinner had gotten cold.

              That tuned out to one Lang Reilly’s biggest mistakes ever.    

6.

Columbus Tavern

Paradise Harbour Club

Nassau, Bahamas

The Next Day

              To Phillip McGrath, Nassau in general and Paradise Island in particular pushed Las Vegas for first place in over-the-top tourist tacky. Almost all the buildings were pink stucco, the landscaping was contrived at best and people, the tourists, well. . . Not exactly the type one would expect to meet in, say, Monaco or St. Bart’s if you got his drift. And for this the client was paying $325.00 per night off-season rate at the Comfort Suites plus what the card in the room described as an “energy surcharge” and a “gratuity surcharge.”

              Now, how do they do that, Phil wondered. A gratuity by definition is something freely given. Politicians weren’t the only ones to twist the English language.

              But he wasn’t here to admire the architecture or analyze to local customs. He was here, the only person sitting at the bar, watching one or two tables of swim suit-clad customers finish up a late lunch. There was sand on the wooden floor, gorgeous views of the harbor and the beach and old-fashioned wooden-bladed fans high overhead that kept the place pleasantly cool despite the fact it was totally open on three sides. It was the sort of place where one would not be terribly surprised to see Ernest Hemmingway nursing a gin and tonic, easy on the tonic.

              Phil did not feel comfortable in a T and Bermudas. He usually did business in conservative suits; or, occasionally, sport coat and slacks. But neither would fit very well in this bare foot or flip-flops setting. Blending in was the first commandment of the private investigation business. He felt particularly uneasy knowing the Glock 9mm was back home in his bedside table, but that couldn’t be helped. His Georgia license to carry was no good here. Besides, the local dress code would have made it difficult to conceal.

              He had ordered a beer, a local Sands. That was almost thirty minutes ago. Despite the paucity of clientele at the moment, the Hawaiian-shirted bar keep was busing himself polishing glasses. Phil told himself he was on island time now where ‘in a minute’ could mean the rest of the day. He also knew that making a white patron wait was a means of both establishing superiority and avenging wrongs real or imagined but certainly distant in history.

              The beer and the woman arrived at the same time. The beer in a sweating bottle; the woman in what could best be described as a Muumuu, one of those loose, flowing garments attributed to large Hawaiian women and shared by women of similar size worldwide.

              “Mr. McGrath?” she asked.

              A good guess since he was the only one seated at the bar and certainly the only recent arrival, judging by the lobster red sunburns at the two tables.

              Phil slipped from his bar stool and extended his right hand. “Celeste, I presume? Can I order you a drink?”

              She plopped down next to him, ordering something from the surly bar tender that Phil had never heard of. He suspected it came with skewered fruit and a tiny umbrella.

              The man behind the bar shook his head. “No, Mom. De mixer, she no wok.” He pointed an accusatory finger at the offending appliance.

              It had been working fine when Phil walked into the place. He suspected filling the order required expending some amount of energy and was, therefore, not something included in the man’s job description.

              Celeste pointed to Phil’s beer. “I’ll have the same.”

              She didn’t have to wait half an hour.

              She poured into a frosty glass and took a long sip. “Now, Mr. McGrath. . .”

              “Phil, please.”

              “OK, Phil, let me tell you. . .”

              He put a finger to his lips. “Enjoy your beer. Then we’ll go for a walk. Maybe you can show me the sights.”

              Her look of surprise was replaced by a stare around the room as though searching for the perceived eavesdropper. “You don’t think. . .?”

              He silenced her with a nod.

              Twenty minutes later, they were walking along the beach, shoes in hand.

              Celeste looked behind them. “You don’t really think somebody was listening back there?”

              Phil chuckled. “No, not really. But I’ve been wrong before and there’s no downside to caution.”

              “Is that a quote or did you make that up yourself?”

              “Pardon?”

              “That ‘no downside to caution’ bit. Is that original?”

              He stopped, looking at her. “It’s something I believe. That’s all.”

              This time he was the one looking around. “We’re almost at the end of the beach. Let’s go into town.”

              “There’s not all that much there, just mobs of tourists.”

              Phil smiled. “Exactly.”

              Minutes later, a sputtering, rattling taxi dropped them off in front of the British Colonial Hotel, a pale yellow monument to the Bahamas that had existed prior to independence. Amid the lush land scape in front, a bronze statue of a man in colonial dress whirled to draw a pistol, the tails of his long coat flying.

              “Who’s that? Do you know?” Celeste asked.

              “Woodes Rogers, first royal governor of the Bahamas. He had two notable achievements: He rid the Bahamas of over two thousand pirates, pardoned all who surrendered and hanged the rest. And he rescued Alexander Selkirk from an otherwise deserted island, the man who gave Defoe the idea for Robinson Crusoe.”

              Celeste gave a girlish giggle. “How’d you know that?”

              “A very long time ago, my wife and I honeymooned here. It was easily accessible and inexpensive.” By now they were strolling east on Bay street. “That was long before Atlantis was built.”

              The narrow and crowded sidewalks of Bay Street made conversation difficult. Any attempt was abandoned within a couple of blocks.

              Phil took Celeste’s hand, tugging. “Let’s cross the street!”

              The move drew a barrage of horns and a scowl from a picture post card uniformed policeman directing traffic from what looked like an orange crate in the middle of the street. A block further along, Phil repeated the maneuver.

              They reached an elliptical parcel of ground dotted with palm trees, Rawson Square on the south side of Bay Street. They walked past a bust of a man the carved legend proclaimed to be ‘Sir Milo Butler, first Governor General of the independent Bahamas.’ Not exactly in the middle of the park, bronze dolphins leapt in a fountain enclosed by marble railing. Across the street, tourists took turns posing in front of a mile post with wooden arrows pointing toward the various islands of the Bahamas with mileage.

              Phil leaned against the marble surrounding the fountain and looked around, another tourist taking in the local scenery.

              “You think we were followed?” Celeste asked.

              Phil turned toward the dolphins. “With this crowd it’s hard to tell. I keep seeing too many of the same faces.”

             
Particularly a pair of men. Ironed golf shirts, creased shorts, spotless white sneakers. Though they weren’t together, they each occupied a side of the street. One dropped back, the other would move up. Standard surveillance technique. Eyes hidden behind sun glasses, it had been impossible to tell if they had been interested in Celeste and Phil. But they weren’t your average tourists. One had a nose that had been broken more than once. Tall, short cropped hair and a bearing that seemed to scream military.

              Phil didn’t see either at the moment. “OK, start at the beginning and tell me everything leading up to your friend’s disappearance. Keep your voice low enough so everyone in the park doesn’t hear.”

              She had just begun when he turned his head. “That’s enough for now.”

              “But. . .”

              He took her by the arm. “Later.”

             
One of the men had appeared, ear phones plugged into what looked like an iPad. But Phil doubted there was wi-fi here in the park. And he had noted the way the man moved the pad as though searching for a target. Even the slimmest electronic pad these days could house the parabolic dish necessary for listening from a distance. Paranoid or cautious?