THIRTY-TWO

The dance floor overflowed with couples moving to the beat of steel drums, as Abby, Jack, and Morgan arrived at the terrace bar of the Buccaneer for dinner.

Jack had flown in a few hours earlier expecting them to be throwing parties over the book. Instead, Abby was cool and withdrawn. Morgan had set up in the guest room at the beach house with Abby. Jack’s things were back in his room at the Buccaneer.

Jack had whispered in her ear that he wanted a moment with her alone. She told him that anything he had to say he could say in front of Morgan. She said it loud enough that Spencer could hear.

At that moment, Jack knew something had happened. He was in trouble.

He ordered drinks from the bar and waited as the bartender mixed them. Maybe a little alcohol would ease the tensions and loosen tongues.

Back at the table, Spencer tried to keep Abby from saying too much. “When he comes back, let me do the talking. Whatever you do, don’t mention his book.”

She nodded. For a woman with a novel high on the bestsellers list and an audience that was growing from thousands toward millions, Abby was remarkably subdued. Suddenly none of it seemed to matter. Abby’s mind was occupied by a single thought: whether Jack had anything to do with Theresa Jenrico’s death.

She kept trying to convince herself that it wasn’t possible. She wanted to believe that her instincts weren’t that flawed, that she could never feel the way she did about a man who would do such a thing. But the questions kept coming, the kind that lawyers deal with when they have a client they don’t trust; mostly motive and opportunity.

Abby tried to remember where Jack was when Theresa was killed. She tried to piece it together. He had left New York ahead of her. Business at Coffin Point, he’d told her. But Jack had turned up in Seattle, unannounced. Abby’s mind was working overtime, tortured by the possibilities.

She watched as Jack leaned on one of the brass elephant heads that graced the bar railing waiting on the bartender.

A young woman with long dark hair and curvaceous moves boogied to the edge of the dance floor, gyrating to the sounds of the music. She took a good look at Jack. She seemed to undress him with her eyes as she did the bump and grind. Jack offered one of his enigmatic smiles in return, Connery as Bond. The girl displayed the pouting look of erotic arrogance that pretty young women seem to own.

Jack raised a glass in toast to her as he headed back to their table with two drinks. Abby was abstaining. Morgan had ordered scotch and soda.

The soft breezes of the eastern trade winds wafted through the open air of the dining room under the barrel-vaulted ceiling with its fans like wounded birds. Some of the paddles were missing, victims of last season’s hurricanes. The pungent odor of Cruzan rum filled the place along with strains of music.

Without asking, Jack took Abby’s hand, and before she knew what was happening she found herself on the dance floor in his arms. They went cheek to cheek. She was stiff and uneasy.

Jack had lied to her. He never told her about the book he published. Now she was left to wonder what else he might have done, about Joey Jenrico, and whether Jack had killed him. The vocalist tortured lyrics, “Knock, knock, knockin on devil’s door.” The words of the song echoed in her ears, and Abby wondered whether she had not made a deal with her own kind of devil.

“Why don’t you pitch it in for the night and join us with a drink?” said Jack. As the music ended, he ran his hand up Abby’s arm and rested it on her shoulder, a gesture of intimacy. She froze.

“I have a book to write, remember?” She forced a smile and took her seat at the table.

Jack pulled up a chair. “Where’s Charlie tonight?” He looked at Abby, but Spencer answered.

“We don’t know.”

“Putting mileage on my car and his body,” said Abby.

“Shacked up somewhere,” said Morgan. “Maybe he’ll catch the clap.”

“Now there’s poetic justice,” said Abby. Charlie hadn’t returned the car in three days. The last time she drove it, there was a pair of woman’s panties in the glove box.

“Well, I hate to throw hot water on a cold party,” said Jack. “But assuming he doesn’t drive off a cliff or contract a quick social disease, has anybody considered an alternate plan for dealing with him?”

“We have,” said Morgan.

“Well, is somebody gonna tell me?”

“We’re providing him with a financial incentive to cooperate,” said Spencer.

“Is that lawyer-speak for buying him off?” said Jack.

“If you like.”

Jack raised an eyebrow and looked at Abby. “You do what you want,” he told her, “but I think you’re making a big mistake.”

“We’ve already discussed it,” said Spencer. “We made a decision and it’s done.”

Morgan had drawn a line in the sand that was hard for Jack to miss even though he’d only been back on the island for two hours. Spencer was in charge, and it didn’t seem like there was much Jack could do to reach Abby.

“I take it you’ve already told Charlie you’re gonna pay him?”

“Not yet, but we have every reason to believe he’ll accept,” said Spencer.

“Oh yeah. Like Dracula taking in a bleeder,” said Jack. “How much are you going to offer?”

“That’s not for you to know,” said Spencer.

“Does he know you wrote the book?” Jack was trying to draw Abby out, but Morgan answered.

“Not unless you told him.”

“I didn’t tell him a thing.”

“He doesn’t know,” said Abby. “He thinks we wrote it together. If he knew it was mine, the price would go up. He figures he has no claim on your part of it.”

“That’s decent of him,” said Jack.

“Decency doesn’t enter into it. You’d know that if you knew Charlie.”

“And you’ve agreed to all of this? Paying to keep him quiet even though he’s stumbling around and doesn’t know squat?”

She nodded.

“Stumbling around he could cause a lot of trouble,” said Morgan.

“If it were my money, I wouldn’t pay him a dime.”

“It’s not your money,” said Abby.

“You’re right,” said Jack. “Your money. Your mistake.”

“Jeez, you’re a hot shot, aren’t you?” said Spencer.

“Morgan, don’t!” Abby tried to stop him.

“No. No. I want to hear what he has to say. How he’d handle it. Tell me. I want to know. What would you do?”

“I’d talk to him.”

“Just like that.”

“Yeah.” Jack shrugged. “Just like that.”

“And what would you say to him? What magic words would you use?”

“I’d reason with him.”

Morgan smiled, then he laughed. “You’d reason with him.”

“Yeah. He’s a very intelligent guy. We reasoned in New York,” said Jack.

“You make logic sound like a four-letter word,” said Spencer.

“Jack can be very persuasive,” said Abby. “I saw him reason with some people in San Juan.”

Jack looked at her. “They aren’t asking you for money anymore.”

“One of them isn’t asking for anything anymore,” said Abby.

“What the hell happened in San Juan?” said Morgan.

“Never mind. I’d rather pay the money.” Abby’d had enough of the conversation.

“And what’s to stop him from coming back for more?” said Jack.

“There won’t be any more, because by the time he gets around to spending what we give him, it’ll be over,” said Abby.

“What are you gonna do, give him your bank card?”

“No. We’re moving the schedule forward,” she told him.

“What are you talking about?” Jack looked at her.

“I mean we’re not waiting for paperback publication to tell Bertoli that I wrote the book.”

Jack looked dazed. He had expected a lot of things, but not this. “But it’s going great in New York.”

“Charlie brings a new dimension,” said Abby. “We can’t keep him quiet forever.”

“Besides, some other things have come up,” said Morgan.

“What things?”

“You don’t have to worry,” said Morgan. “You’re going to get your share. That’s all you need to know,” he told Jack.

“No. What I need to know is what’s going on. When are you going to tell Bertoli?”

“We’re going to give it a month on the list,” said Abby. “By then the hook should be set.”

Jack shook his head like he couldn’t believe it. “When you start something, you should finish it.” This was aimed at Abby. “I didn’t mind playing your games. Going to New York and doing the Alex and Carla show. In fact, for a while diddling corporate America was sorta fun. But these people are playing real business with real money,” said Jack. “They made promises and they’ve lived up to them. You can say what you want but they delivered, which is a hell of a lot more than you’ve done.”

“They got what they bargained for,” said Abby. “They got you.”

“Yes, and now you want to screw with their hardcover campaign,” said Jack. “In the middle of it you want to jerk the carpet out from under all of us.”

“What’s wrong?” said Morgan. “You don’t think the book will continue to succeed without you?”

“I put myself on the line,” said Jack. “That’s what’s wrong.”

Abby looked at him. “What are you talking about?”

“You sent me up there alone and told me to wing it. So I did. I made a promise.”

“What kind of promise?” said Abby.

Jack hesitated for a moment. Then he spoke. “I told Bertoli that from what I could see he’d delivered on his part of the deal. I told him we’d deliver the outline so he could see where the sequel was going. I thought that was fair.”

“You thought it was fair?” said Abby.

“You’re on the list inside of five. When’s the last time that happened?”

“You had no right,” said Abby. “I told you on the phone . . .”

“And I told you we’d talk about it when I got back,” said Jack. “I come back to find that you’re getting ready to pitch me out onto the street.”

“There’s nothing to talk about.” Abby was furious. She had visions of the outline landing in Hollywood before she could finish the manuscript. Morgan was right. Without her realizing, Jack was taking control.

The maître d’ came over. Their table in the dining room was ready. Abby was angry. Her face was flushed.

Jack was the first one out of his chair. “I gave them my word.”

“I guess you’re just going to have to tell him you made a mistake,” said Abby.

“A mistake?” said Jack.

“Fine. Tell them you lied. I don’t care what you tell them. They’re not seeing the outline.”

“Well, I guess you’ve made your decision.” Jack froze Abby with a look and then turned a hard gaze on Morgan.

“Enjoy your dinner.” Without another word he turned and headed off in the other direction, toward the stairs and the path that led to his room down on the water.

A few tables away in a dark corner of the bar, an African-American dressed in a sport coat and tie sipped what looked like bourbon as he read a newspaper. The drink was iced tea and the newspaper was three days old.

His eyes kept wandering over the top of the paper, looking at the three people at the table thirty feet away. They were engaged in a heated argument, but Logano couldn’t hear a word. The music was too loud.

What the people at the table couldn’t see was that on the table behind the newspaper was a photograph. It was a picture of Abby, mildly distorted by the electronic transmission that had sent it from Seattle to the Patrick Sweeny Police Headquarters in St. Croix.

It had taken Sergeant Logano four days to locate the woman. The island was not large by U.S. standards, with only two sizeable towns, but there were a thousand secluded houses along the shore and more up in the hills. She could have been staying in any one of them. Logano felt fortunate to have found her at all.

If you knew the island, there were only three or four places where you went to look for tourists. The bartender at the Buccaneer was one of them. He recognized Abby’s photograph. Logano staked the place out for three nights running. Tonight he got lucky.

He continued to watch them while he wiped the sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief.

He pocketed the handkerchief and studied the two men with her. One of them had to be the lawyer. Which one Logano wasn’t sure. He didn’t know who the other one was. The Seattle homicide detective who gave them the information said nothing about a second man. But they had tailed the lawyer to the airport. After he boarded his plane, the Seattle police had talked to the airline clerk and discovered that he was headed for St. Croix via South Carolina. What he was doing in the Carolinas they didn’t know.

For Logano it was a sensitive assignment, one that required discretion. Seattle didn’t have a warrant for the woman’s arrest, though they were working on it. Right now they wanted to talk to her. Logano and his department were performing a professional courtesy. His job was to find her and call Seattle.

Logano was no fool. He knew that the woman was as good as cuffed and on her way to the States. When the Americans got their teeth into something, they were relentless. They might pick her up on a technical violation, Customs or Immigration, but they would get her, of that he was sure.

He lowered the paper onto the table and covered the photograph. He felt the bulge under his left arm, the Smith & Wesson .357 Magnum with its four-inch barrel. Logano was of the old school. No semiautomatic spray and pray for him. He didn’t want to shoot anybody, but if he had to, he believed that doing people should be like killing elephants: one shot with something that would bring them down.

He lifted a copy of the faxed report from Seattle out of the inside pocket of his coat and glanced at it while he watched them.

According to the report, they didn’t think she was armed, but they couldn’t be sure. They wanted to talk to her regarding a double homicide. Logano wasn’t going to get his ass shot off performing a professional courtesy for anybody.

As he put the report back in his pocket, the maître d’ approached the woman’s table. He couldn’t hear, but Logano assumed that they were being told that their table in the dining room was ready. It seemed the maître d’ had interrupted their argument.

One of the men, good-looking and tall, stood. They had some words, then he turned and headed for the stairs and the parking lot. The woman and the other man got up and headed for the dining room.

For a moment, Logano thought about following the man down the stairs, then settled back in his chair. Right now his job was the woman walking to dinner with her companion. Lose her and he might not be so lucky again. He had to find out where she was living and call the information to the police in Seattle. There was no hurry. He could always pick up other threads later, after he had the place where she lived under surveillance.

Cheeseburgers in Paradise was an open-air restaurant with live music on weekends and a bar that served anything you wanted to drink. It was a hangout for the young set, and lately Charlie was feeling particularly young.

He hit on a sweet little thing sitting on a bar stool. She was wearing a short shirt like a cheerleader, a tight pull-over top that showed her tits. Charlie was big on tits. He bought her dinner, a burger and fries, while he was busy throwing back shots of Grand Marnier with tequila chasers.

The girl was talkative, tanned, and vivacious. She was living on a small boat with a friend who had sailed to another island for a few days, and now she had no place to stay. Charlie couldn’t believe his good luck. She was freckled and athletic. Charlie figured she could screw like a bunny.

About eleven-thirty he took her to his car to impress her and found her boyfriend waiting for them. They rolled him in the dirt of the parking lot, took his wallet and watch, and left Charlie in some tall grass to sleep it off. They were too smart to take his car. Where do you go on an island with a stolen car?

He woke up in the weeds a little before four in the morning staring up at a sky full of stars that all seemed to have twins. Charlie’s head felt like a balloon. Slowly he sat up.

The lights from Cheeseburgers in Paradise were out, and the parking lot was empty, except for Abby’s little blue sports car. Charlie couldn’t remember what happened. He had only vague recollections of his face being pressed between two breasts when the lights went out. The girl’s face was a hazy memory.

He got to his knees, and found his keys in his pocket, then stumbled to the car. When he looked at his hand he found there was blood on it. Charlie felt the back of his head. There was a knot the size of a baseball and when he touched it everything above his shoulders throbbed. He wondered what they’d hit him with.

He went to check the time and realized for the first time that his watch was gone. “Shit.” He patted the seat of his pants and realized they’d gotten his wallet, too. “Son of a bitch.”

He hoped he wouldn’t get stopped by a cop on his way back to the Buccaneer. It took him twenty minutes weaving all over the two-lane road. He was lucky there was no traffic.

Even the guard at the gate had gone home. The barricade was up so Charlie didn’t have to pass muster. He drove up the hill past the main building and down toward the bungalows on the water, then parked the car in front of his room. For a few minutes he thought about sleeping right there, behind the wheel, then finally cleared his head enough to fish for the room key in his pocket. They had left this and a little pocket change.

He didn’t bother to lock the car but made his way to the short path leading to his room. Nothing was going right tonight. The light over the door had burned out and Charlie couldn’t seem to find the keyhole in the door. It was probably just as good he hadn’t gotten her home. He probably couldn’t have found that hole, either.

He missed three times with the key when he heard something thrashing in the brush behind him and started to turn.

“What the fu . . .” Charlie didn’t feel anything, but he couldn’t understand why his words no longer had sound.