“Did she say anything, sir, before she . . . passed away?”
“No. Just my name. Nothing else.”
“Any idea who might have done it, sir?”
I started to tell him the truth, then stopped. Sure, I had an idea. Maybe more than just an idea. We had already told the cops to tail Sir Conan. And if they couldn’t put two and two together, why make it easy for them?
That would just give me more time. More time to track him down on my own. In my mind’s eye, I could see very clearly how I would take him; how I would force a confession and then tear his life away with my hands. I could see the handsome, slightly cruel English face of Sir Conan James; could see the way his dark eyes would look when I made him beg. . . .
“Is something wrong, sir? Shall I call a physician?”
The Cayman police lieutenant was looking at me strangely, reading the expression on my face.
“What? No. I’m fine. You were asking . . . ”
“I was asking if you had any idea who might have shot Miss Ebanks.”
“No. No idea. I just arrived on the island a few days ago.”
“Did you come here on business?”
“He’s workin’ fer us, Lieutenant Campbell!” The big Irishman rambled across the expanse of apartment, hands in cutoff shorts, burly chest and shoulders straining against the white worsted shirt he wore. His red hair was mussed, as if he had come straight from bed.
“Commander O’Davis—this gentleman is working for you?”
“Aye. And if ye’ve asked all yer questions, Lieutenant, I’ll be takin’ him along now.”
“Certainly, Commander.”
The Irishman took me by the arm and led me outside. The police investigators were just finishing up, done with their measuring and powdering and outlining. Once more, a woman’s life had ended with her form etched in chalk. Cynthia Rothchild. And now Diacona Ebanks. The first had been grim enough. The second I could not bear to see.
“You okay, Yank?” the Irishman said softly as he walked me down the stairs.
“Me? Sure. Everything’s jake.” My voice sounded odd, like the voice of some stranger on the edge of hysterics.
“Easy, lad, easy.”
I squeezed into the Fiat and slammed the door. Outside the Sea Mist Apartments was a crowd of people, mostly islanders, many of them sobbing openly.
“The murder of an Ebanks is not taken calmly on Grand Cayman,” O’Davis said as we backed onto the main road. “That poor lass of yours was probably related one way or another ta half the island population. They’ll not let the judge go easy on ’im if they find out who done it—if they let ’im get to the judge, that is.”
“If
they find out who did it. You know damn well who killed her—the same maniac who killed Cynthia.”
“Did ya tell the police that?”
I caught the Irishman’s eyes. It was like looking into a mirror. His pale eyes were cold, frozen, bitter.
“Guess it slipped my mind.”
“Good,” he said. “That’s me boy. Spoke with that fool Henderson at Government House this morning. That was before I got word about yer girl. He said the police sent a unit to Sir Conan’s estate this mornin’. No one was there. Just the servants. Patrol cars are keepin’ an eye open fer his car.”
“Anymore word from the kidnappers?”
The Irishman shook his head. “They’ve got full watches monitoring the VHF. But so far—nothin’. I’m supposed ta ring in every half hour, jest in case.”
“They get anything out of the two Jamaicans?”
“At first the brutes wouldn’t even admit ta bein’ part of a heroin ring. Finally gave in when the evidence was presented—that an’ the fact they threatened them with murder charges fer the two American drug runners. Had a real slick organization, they did. On the Jamaica end, their bossman would make contact with international high rollers interested in makin’ a quick killin’ on a drug deal. They’d meet the high rollers here in Grand Cayman with the promise they’d made arrangements ta buy X amount of heroin. The high rollers were to finance the buy, then take a major percentage of the sale but it never worked that way, o’ course. Jamaicans were workin’ both ends. Once they delivered the money, the high rollers would just disappear—or be scared inta never sayin’ a word. After all, no police force in the world would listen to their tale o’ woe about bein’ flimflammed in a drug deal. And the Jamaicans had no problem launderin’ the money through Grand Cayman with all the international bankin’ available.” O’Davis snorted. “Pretty damn smart, really. Said they had a mandate from God. Needed the money so the Rastafarians could take their prophesied place as rulers of the world.” The Irishman gave me a quick look. “Seem like there’s more an’ more loony-birds runnin’ around lately?”
“Maybe. Or maybe they just get better press. A maniac has no more willing PR agent than your average reporter. One thing I do know—this island is going to have one fewer lunatic before I leave.”
“Aye. I kin see that, brother MacMorgan. I kin see. But we still have the lost lad ta think about, don’t forget.”
“I haven’t forgotten. I keep thinking kidnapping would fit right in with that Rastafarian mandate from God.”
“The police are goin’ over the trawler and the Canadian’s home with a fine-tooth comb. If there’s any sign of the boy, they’ll find it. The Cayman regulars are all fine, studious lads. Not much crime here, so they do na get much chance ta use it. But that’ll jest make ’em that much more determined ta succeed.”
The gates at the Sir Conan James estate were open, so we just drove on in. A vintage battleship-gray Bentley was sitting inside the carport, garage door open. O’Davis identified it as Lady James’ car. But there was no sign of Sir Conan James’ Mercedes.
We decided to go in anyway. On the way, I told Westy about my earlier encounter with the drunken succubus, Lady James. He clicked his tongue knowingly and said nothing.
“So I think it might be better if I talked to her by myself,” I added. “There are still some things about the boy’s room that bother me. The telescope was one thing—and that still doesn’t make sense. His alarm clock was another.”
The Irishman suddenly looked interested. “How’s that, Yank?”
“Lady James said he usually got up about nine. But his alarm was set for five. I tried to tie it in with the telescope—maybe a meteor shower early in the morning. But there wasn’t one. Nothing’s adding up, Westy. And when your facts don’t add up, it means you either don’t have enough facts—or someone misled you.”
“If yer tryin’ ta get at somethin’, Dusky, jest come right out and say it.”
“Okay. I want you to do a little breaking and entering. While I’m talking to Lady James, I want you to go over this whole house. I’ll keep her busy until you let me know you’re done.”
“But the police have already gone over the house.”
“Yeah—looking for information. But not the boy.”
“What?”
“Damn it, it’s worth a try. This is a small island. They’ve had everyone but the Boy Scouts searching for him. They’ve done everything but go house to house—and that includes this house.”
He shrugged. “It’s true the two of ’em are crazy enough. But why would even Englishmen try somethin’ so queer as ta . . . ”
“I don’t know. But it’s worth a look.”
I got out of the car feeling that odd floating sensation of sudden shock come over me. My footsteps on the drive echoed in my ear. Dia’s dying eyes had seared themselves into my brain.... Work. That’s what I needed now. I needed to bury myself in this mission; needed to forget everything else but the one lone goal; needed to blanket out the frozen specter of death, of dying men and screams in the night—everything but those eyes. Because I could never forget those dying eyes.
The same prim maid answered the door. She didn’t even try to hide her disgust for me now. To her, I was just one more male dog, sniffing and pawing, anxious for another romp in bed with her hated mistress—and the lost boy be damned.
“Lady James is indisposed,” she sniffed, blocking my entrance.
“I need to see her anyway.” From the corner of my eye, I saw the Irishman cross the expanse of French windows, hunting for a back way in.
“She’s not takin’ visitors today!”
“It’s about the boy.”
For a moment, I thought she was going to break into grandmotherly tears. “Oh . . . have they found Master Thomas?”
“No. I’m sorry. But we’re looking.” She hesitated, and I added, “That’s why I was here the other night, by the way. That and nothing else.”
She inspected me momentarily like an old drill sergeant, then nodded her grudging approval. “She’s seein’ no one—like I said. But if it might help Master Tommy, then I won’t say nothin’ if you slip past me real quiet-like.”
I went quickly up the carpeted staircase and found the door. I considered barging right in, then decided to keep the visit civil—at face value, anyway. So I knocked and opened the door.
She had just lit a cigarette. There was a fresh bottle of wine in the ice bucket. She wore striking white pleated pants and blouse, blond hair set in queenly ringlets. Had I not come to know the creature inside, she would have looked very beautiful indeed. I expected her to be outraged by my sudden entrance; instead she greeted me with a theatrical delight—belied by the coldness of her eyes.
“Well, how nice! My favorite eunuch is just in time to join me for a glass of wine.” She exhaled a slow cloud of cigarette smoke, then inhaled it abruptly through her thin nostrils.
“I’ll just watch if you don’t mind.”
“Ah—how appropriate for someone with your . . . sexual difficulties.” She poured herself a glass of wine, held it up in mock toast, drained it and poured another.
“I’m looking for your husband.”
“How nice.”
“It’s about your son.”
Her eyes flared wide. “And just what in the hell could you tell that bloody fool about my son that you couldn’t tell me?”
“Questions, that’s all. I just want to ask him some questions.”
“Is that all you detective types do? Ask questions? I would have thought you would be out looking.”
“And I might say the same thing to you.” I meant it to hurt. And it did. I saw it in her eyes. But she quickly lowered that British veil which hides all and implies everything.
“Lately you seem to take especial delight in hurting me, Mr. MacMorgan.”
“An impersonal observer might call it an even exchange.”
“I’m not that revolting, am I?”
“Don’t underestimate yourself.”
She crossed in front of me and took a seat on the divan, legs crossed, cigarette held erect. “You know, I didn’t believe for a minute your story about being castrated in some horrible accident. I felt I owed it to my own self-esteem to play along with your little . . . fairy tale?” She smiled demurely. “Or is that a bad pun?” When I said nothing, she continued. “You forget that you were holding me very close. And you wanted me very much. That was . . . quite obvious.”
“Do you know where your husband is or don’t you?”
“I imagine he’s out seducing some island whore. That’s a normal course of recreation for him.” She sipped at the wine, smiling. But the smile soon left her face. She tried to cover her sudden fear with flippancy. “For an awful moment, dear eunuch, I got the distinct impression you were about to hit me. But a big strong male like yourself wouldn’t hit a woman—and a woman with a title at that.”
“You don’t care a goddamn for that boy, do you? Neither one of you airy, self-important bastards cares one ounce what’s happening to him.”
“Don’t you say that! Don’t you dare say that!”
The change that came over her was explosive, unexpected. Wineglass crashing to the floor, she jumped to her feet and came stalking toward me. “You have no right to assume anything about my son! You have no right!” She exhaled a long breath, eyes wild, fighting for composure. When she was under better control, she stretched herself as if under some great weight. “You have no idea . . . no idea what I’ve been through,” she said in a small voice. “I would do anything for Tommy.”
“In that case, tell me where your husband is.”
“I don’t know!”
“He wasn’t here at all last night?”
“No. I haven’t seen him since the lawn party.”
“Is that unusual?”
“Hardly. He’s quite the roamer. Like a cat. The only thing he worries about is his women and the precious honor of the family name.”
“He’s got a weird way of showing it.”
“And what’s that supposed to mean?”
I watched her closely as I said it. “It means I think your wandering husband has gone even crazier than you know. I think he’s developed a taste for murdering the women who turn him away. You might keep it in mind—if he cares enough about you anymore to ask.”
“You’re being ridiculous!”
“Am I?”
“Jimmy’s a lot of things—a lot of very bad things. But he’s no killer. I daresay he may have even spent a few hours out of the last night looking for Tommy.”