Freeda laid her hand on her shoulder. “You want to tell me what happened?”
Victoria took a deep breath to regain her composure, then shook her head. “Let’s just say it wasn’t the serial killers that made me want to work for the Child Abduction and Serial Killer Unit.”
She flashed a sad smile of gratitude, then headed for the door.
253
THE INFORMANT
Hannon left New York at noon, one o’clock Antigua time.
In Puerto Rico he changed planes to the Antigua-based LIAT, short for Leeward Islands Air Transport, locally known as “Luggage in Another Town.”
Luggage, however, wasn’t a concern. He traveled lightly with just an overnight bag. He’d burned all his clothes back in New York, along with the big rat, the little rat and a thirteen-foot snake. By now the Volvo was in a thousand pieces, having gone to a chop shop in Queens for a quick two grand. It was his cardinal rule: Destroy all evidence. Once the deed was done, never drive the same car, wear the same shoes, or even use the same toothpaste—
ever
, again. True to form, his khaki slacks, cordovan shoes and navy blue blazer over a pink oxford-cloth shirt were all brand-new, purchased just that morning with cash from Rollins’s apartment. It was typical West Indies business attire.
The plane landed in Antigua at 5:22 P.M., about an hour before sunset. Bird International Airport was a busy hub for air traffic between islands, the O’Hare of the Caribbean, but that was like calling Little Rock the New York of Arkansas. A steady stream of small one-and two-engine propeller planes took off and landed as he walked across the runway and into the terminal. Inside, the customs officer didn’t even stamp his passport. Turned out, United States citizens didn’t need one. A driver’s license and birth certificate were good enough.
“Purpose of your visit?” asked the customs officer inside the glass booth. He had a hint of an English accent. The tone, however, was decidedly mechanical, 254
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as might be expected on a tiny island of ninety thousand people that was besieged by half a million tourists each year.
“Business,” said Hannon. Then he smirked with an af-terthought. “
And
pleasure.”
He rented a Jeep at the airport and drove south across the island. The British leeward islands had a much flatter terrain than the volcano-scarred wind-wards, so the roads had fewer treacherous curves. Potholes, however, were a nuisance, and as he swerved from side to side to avoid the craters he had to keep reminding himself to drive on the left, like in England. Through the island’s dry interior he passed rolling scrub and the hollow cones of decaying old windmills. They were among the few remaining structures from the dark days of slavery and sugarcane plantations. Even then, as now, the spectacular coastline was the main attraction. Antigua boasted 366 beaches in all.
Hannon took a room at the Admiral’s Inn, a restored eighteenth-century Georgian inn that was the centerpiece of touristy Nelson’s Dockyard. The dockyard was a historic compound of restored shops, hotels and restaurants on famous English Harbour, like a small-scale Williamsburg, Virginia, with a nautical flare. Rooms at the Ad were away from the best beaches, so they were relatively cheap by Antiguan standards. More important, he was just a short drive away from the Charter Bank, where at nine o’clock Monday morning there would be a quarter million dollars for Eric Venters.
Hannon left his garment bag and jacket in the room and headed to the outdoor bar on the elevated 255
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terrace. The sunset crowd was enjoying tropical drinks and dancing to melodious steel drum music beneath shady Australian pines. The bartender was a lively woman who moved behind the bar with rhythm in her step. She was in her mid-twenties, Hannon guessed, with long brown hair and a pink hibiscus blossom tucked behind her ear.
Her dark, mysterious look exuded a kind of exotic beauty found in island women of mixed ancestry. She had every man’s attention in her tight white shorts and flower-print shirt knotted beneath her rounded breasts. Hannon liked what he saw, and he started a casual round of across-the-room eye contact. She broke away from a regular customer at the other end of the bar and came his way.
“How about a fig daiquiri, mate?” she said.
He made a face, like it sounded gross.
She laughed. “It’s okay. In Antigua a fig’s a banana.”
“All right. You talked me into it: I’ll buy one for you.”
She smiled. “Sorry. Can’t drink while I work.”
“How about after work?”
“Maybe.” Her tone was encouraging. She put a napkin on the bar and casually brushed his hand, as if by accident. “So what do you usually drink?”
“A belt-and-suspenders martini.”
“What’s that?”
“Shaken
and
stirred.”
She cracked a smile and reached for the blender. “Tell you what, if you don’t like the fig daiquiri, the martini’s on me.”
“Can I trust you?” Hannon asked.
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“Of course,” she said. “The question is, can I trust you?”
“Only one way to find out,” he said, grinning.
She burrowed her tongue into her cheek and gave him a sly look. Her smirk turned seductive as she leaned into the bar and gave him an eyeful of cleavage. “You’re pretty bold,” she said coyly.
He chuckled lightly and looked her right in the eye.
“You’d be surprised. I guarantee it.” The smile slowly faded from his face, and he turned serious.
She smiled awkwardly, blinking at his stare. She poured his daiquiri, then glanced toward the far end of the bar.
“Be back in a sec,” she said.
“Hey, what’s your name?” he said as she started away.
“Dominique,” she replied, glancing back over her shoulder.
He nodded, as if he liked it. He watched as she walked toward the other customers, then turned his attention to the long strand of black hair in his hand. She hadn’t even noticed his plucking it from her head. Their eyes connected again from a distance, and she blushed with a smile.
He smiled back suavely as he rolled the strand of hair between his thumb and finger. Then, discreetly, he turned his head and tucked it beneath his tongue.
257
o
n Saturday afternoon Victoria dropped her muddy baseball cleats at the kitchen door, then shuffled across the linoleum floor in stocking feet to the refrigerator. Softball season was still eight weeks away, but a sudden burst of springlike weather had given her coach a brainstorm for a Saturday scrimmage. Her hair was twisted in a ponytail, flowing out the hole in the back of her cap. Across the front of her jersey in bold red script was the team logo,
Long Balls,
a name that could conjure up some rather obscene images until you finally visualized a long
fly
ball sailing out of the ballpark.
Considering she hadn’t played since Labor Day, she’d made a decent showing in a losing effort. Two for four, three RBIs, and a big red strawberry on her left buttock from sliding into third base like an idiot on semifrozen ground. Starting at the waist, she carefully peeled down the tight pants for a peek, wincing with pain at the bruised and bloody proof that buns of steel weren’t always an advantage.
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Now that she’d seen the damage, it hurt like hell.
She hobbled to the freezer and grabbed a bag of frozen peas. She’d had the same bag for months; frozen veggies made great ice packs. She leaned over the kitchen table, cringing and cooing as she held her home remedy in place. Her left cheek was sending mixed messages, as if it couldn’t decide whether the cold was worse or made it feel better. It would definitely keep down the swelling, however. By Tuesday, she might even be sitting again.
The phone rang. It was hanging on the wall, completely across the room. She laughed out loud, suddenly imagining herself in one of those happy-smiley telephone commercials, unable to get to the phone because she was slumped over the kitchen table with a bag of frozen peas slapped on her ass. Don’t
you
wish you had call return?
She heard her machine answer, but the caller hung up.
A minute later, the phone rang again. Someone obviously didn’t want to talk to her machine. She tossed the peas aside and darted for the phone.
“Hello,” she said through clenched teeth. She was in that “only-hurts-for-a-little-while” phase, like when the Band-Aid takes your hair with it.
“Is Charlie there?” It was a woman’s voice, one Victoria didn’t recognize.
“I’m sorry, there’s no Charlie at this number.” She grimaced and was about to hang up.
“I know he doesn’t
live
there. I just want to know if he’s there.”
Victoria hesitated. The tone sounded accusatory, agitated. “Who is this?”
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“A friend of Charlie’s. Are you a friend of his too, Victoria?”
“How’d you know my name?”
“Because you gave Charlie your phone number.”
Her skin was tingling, her mind racing. “I told you: I don’t know a Charlie.”
“That’s a lie. I saw your little message on the cocktail napkin. ‘Don’t be a stranger.’ And you wrote your name and number.”
Victoria blinked hard, confused. She remembered
that
, of course. But he’d said his name was Mike, not Charlie.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about. But if you ever call here again, I’m calling the police.” She slammed down the phone and took a deep breath.
You idiot,
she thought. She’d taught self-defense classes to women, warning them never to give their phone number to strangers. Three vodka tonics had apparently turned her into Agent “Do as I say, not as I do.” He’d seemed charming and was very good-looking, but that was no excuse. She felt like that skydiving instructor she’d heard about on the news who’d jumped out of an airplane without his parachute. Worrying about the safety of others is a good way to forget about your own.
Part of her said just to ignore it, but if she’d run into an insanely jealous spouse or girlfriend, it might make sense to take precautions and do a little damage control.
She hobbled across the kitchen floor and into the master bedroom, where the caller ID box rested on the nightstand between the telephone and a framed snapshot of her mother. She hit the retrieve button. Names and corresponding phone numbers instantly
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appeared on the digital display terminal, identifying her last three callers. The last two, counting the hang-up, were from the same woman. The name, however, meant nothing to her.
She picked up the phone and dialed a friend who was an investigative analyst with the Bureau.
“Hi, Sam, it’s Victoria Santos.”
“Hey, how’s it going? Long time.”
“I know it probably seems like I only call when I need a favor, but I need another one.”
“Okay,” he chuckled. “I’ll put it on your tab.”
“I just got this strange call at home,” she said pensively.
“Don’t know who it was. I was hoping maybe you could do a background check. Valerie St. Pierre is the name.”
“Sure. When do you need it?”
She thought for a moment, and the more she thought about it, the more it tickled her instincts. There was something
really
weird about that call.
“As soon as you can get it.”
Hannon slept alone in his room until one o’clock that Saturday afternoon. The driving, flying and searching for Burmese pythons over the past few days had finally caught up with him. He purchased a pair of cotton chino shorts, sandals and a plaid madras shirt from the men’s shop in the hotel, then showered, dressed, and ate a late lunch in his room while looking over the documents for the account at the Charter Bank.
At four-fifteen he reached over to the nightstand and picked up the cocktail napkin on which Dominique 261
THE INFORMANT
had written her phone number. Her shift last night had run past midnight, but they’d talked for an hour or so, until he was able to coax her number out of her. She was off tonight, so he called to see if she’d show him around the island.
“It’s a date,” she said, and Hannon chuckled at the way she’d put it.
He picked her up in his Jeep from her St. Johns apartment around five. She was wearing cutoff jean shorts, with a white fishnet shirt that covered a yellow bathing-suit top. Her breasts seemed fuller and rounder than he’d remembered, and she seemed to like the fact that it was so obvious he’d noticed. The pink hibiscus flower was gone from her hair, but the long brown locks draped over her shoulders, caressing her skin with her every move.
Hannon helped her with the blanket and cooler she’d packed. “To the beach?” he asked.
“No. Boggy Peak. There isn’t time to tour the whole island, but you can see lots from up there. I thought we’d drink a few beers and watch the sunset.”
He smiled with approval, then steered into traffic, shooting her a glance every now and then to admire the way the wind blew her hair in the open Jeep.
The road from St. Johns skirted the coastline, past some of the island’s finest west coast beaches, in the lee of the Shekerley Mountains, Antigua’s biggest hills. Dominique took them up the southern entrance, a steep road inland from Cade’s Bay. Fields of black pineapple stretched on either side of the road, while baked mud roads twisted inland through the island’s lushest and most attractive area. The southwest hills
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were the closest thing Antigua had to a rain forest. As they climbed Boggy Peak to thirteen hundred feet they were soon surrounded by elephant ear and colorful tropical flora.
They parked at the end of the road, then walked the rest of the way through a stand of tall trees and thick bushy undergrowth. The path, if one existed, was indiscernible. She led the way through the overgrowth, but with his height Hannon was banging his forehead on low-hanging branches. Finally, they reached a small clearing on the side of the hill, with a view of the Caribbean that stretched south to Guadaloupe and north to St. Kitts. To the west, straight out, the sun was an orange ball hovering over the sea.