The Cayman International Bank and Trust had high-resolution CCTV from multiple angles inside, and two outside the building. Deek had seen the man he’d been chasing several times from varying distances, and Sam had given him a good description from seeing him in the cabin doorway of the seaplane. In the CCTV, he clearly matched the photograph Whittaker sent Nora after tracing Wayne Daniels’s passport. The name also matched the bank account, and while Dorothy, the manager, couldn’t share account details with the police without a court order, she verified his identity.
“Or this could be the name he’s currently using,” Deek pointed out as they left the bank.
Nora paused on the sidewalk and thought for a moment. AJ stood next to her, her hair still damp from the dive. She’d borrowed a T-shirt from her friend as they’d passed by Nora’s beaten-up old Jeep, but was still barefoot and her bathing suit made damp patches through the shirt. Nora was supposed to be dropping AJ back at her dock, but currently the three looked like an odd sampling of life on an island.
“Fake passports aren’t as easy to get as the movies make out,” Nora finally said. “Especially ones which will stand up to inspection and scanning.”
“These people have deep pockets and endless resources,” Deek assured her. “If Hildebrand is really Şeytan Taciri, which I believe he is, then he’s not only one of the wealthiest men in the world, he’s one of the most ruthless and dangerous. This guy alters world politics to make money.”
“Okay, assuming you’re right,” Nora said, “then how would Daniels leave the island now?”
Deek thought for a moment, running through the options in his mind. Nora still didn’t sound convinced, but was at least playing along, so he needed to win her over. Which meant being right.
“Boat’s too slow, isn’t it?” AJ said before he’d come up with a conclusion. “You said he needs to be in Florida in a day or two. That rules out going all the way by water.”
Deek nodded. “That’s true.”
“Unless he uses a boat to get to another island, and then flies,” Nora countered. “He could be in the Sister Islands, Jamaica, or Cuba by morning.”
“How many airports are there on Grand Cayman?” Deek asked.
“One,” Nora confirmed.
“So light aircraft, private jets, commercial, everything, fly from the one I arrived at?”
Both women nodded.
“I can track which planes come and go from the airport,” Deek said, thoughtfully. “Maybe something will stand out.”
“How will you do that?” AJ asked. “Stand at the fence and watch them all evening?”
“I have an app,” he said, finally able to puff his chest out about something. “And a buddy with some cool tracking software.”
* * *
According to the message from his contact, Angler needed to be at the airport by 6:00 p.m. for wheels-up by 6:30 p.m. Sunset would be around 7:00 p.m. at sea level, but a little later from altitude. Of course, he didn’t give a hoot about a colorful horizon, but the ruse had to be perfectly timed.
With two hours to kill, he made a mental list of all the items he needed to accomplish before leaving the Cayman Islands. Top priority was finding different transportation. The scooter was no doubt reported stolen by now, and likely the clothes he was wearing too. There hadn’t been a helmet with the bike and from the odd looks he’d been given in the short run to the cove, he guessed they had a helmet law on the island.
What Angler needed was a car no one would miss for a few hours, and a set of neutral-colored clothes that actually fit. The board shorts he’d taken were a size too small and were crushing parts of his anatomy he planned to use during his retirement. Studying the map on his phone, he found a thrift store between Smith’s Barcadere and the airport. The direct route was back along South Church Street, the road to the dive shop and town, so he mapped out an alternative path, keeping him off the main roads—if the two-lane island streets could be called that.
Slinging the weighty duffel bag over his shoulder, Angler pulled the scooter out of the shade and fired it up. The two women were herding their kids to a car on the opposite side of the dirt lot, and one of them looked his way. She tapped a finger to her head and said something he couldn’t hear, no doubt reminding him to wear a helmet. The last thing he needed was nosy mothers getting a good look at him, so he gave her a thumbs up and quickly pulled to the road.
He heard her shout a bit louder, but ignored her and accelerated down the street, looking for his turn. A car coming toward him in his lane reminded him he was supposed to be on the other side of the road and he quickly veered left, passing the car who honked his horn. Perfect, he thought, all he needed to do was slide by unnoticed for two hours, and so far he’d done nothing but draw attention to himself.
* * *
As excited as Deek had been to use his app once more, he was equally disappointed when it showed no planes of interest heading to Grand Cayman. They were now at Nora’s Jeep, and after giving him a blank stare which he took as conveying something between disgruntled and ready to kill him, she announced they’d be running AJ to her dock. Deek clambered into the back seat of the lifted CJ-7 and was fumbling with the seat belt, which didn’t appear to have anything to attach to, when Nora’s handheld police radio came to life.
“All units be on the lookout for a white Honda scooter reported stolen from Eden Rock Dive Center.”
The dispatcher continued with a license plate number, but Deek was still consumed with the seat belt and didn’t pay any attention.
“Central, this is PC277. What time did the scooter go missing? Over.” Nora asked, and Deek’s shoulders dropped.
The one person who’d taken a hint of interest in his story was now moving on to petty theft crimes and playing taxi to her friend. He wondered how he could rent a car without a working credit card and nothing more than a handful of change in his pocket. Somehow, he needed to get to the airport.
“PC277, this is Central. Sometime after 12:30 p.m., but he can’t be sure when. Over.”
“Central, this is PC277. Got a picture? Over.”
“PC277, this is Central. Sending now. Over.”
“I know you have to do your police thing, but I must protest…” Deek started, but Nora held up her hand.
“Shut up.”
He stopped talking and wondered what she’d be like if the detective hadn’t told her to be nice.
Nora studied her cell phone for a moment, then handed it to AJ in the passenger seat, and pulled out from her parking spot.
“Got a few more minutes for a detour?” Nora asked.
“Sure,” AJ replied. “That’s a Honda Ruckus. They’re pretty fun little bikes.” She then handed Deek the phone.
On the screen was a picture of a young guy standing behind a weird-looking scooter. It was white with a low-slung motor just in front of the rear wheel and a tubular frame holding a red seat. It looked more like the production version of someone’s home-built fun-bike project. He handed the phone back.
“Okay, so some kid’s had his scooter stolen. How could this possibly take precedence over a potential terrorist attack?”
Nora was heading south out of the small waterfront downtown area of George Town. The road soon became lined on the right with oceanfront homes and condominium buildings, with smaller homes inland to the left. The Jeep’s big off-road tires made a bunch of noise on the asphalt and the wind whipped over the vehicle, blowing AJ’s hair in all directions. Deek was about to yell to be heard over the racket, when Nora slowed and turned into a parking lot on the right. Deek noted the sign on the accompanying building advertised “Eden Rock Dive Center.” When they stopped, he stood up in the back of the Jeep, held onto the roll bar, and looked over the ocean. He could see the buoy marking the seaplane wreck bobbing in the water no more than three hundred yards to the north. He beamed like a kid hearing the ice cream truck music approaching the neighborhood.
“I like the way you’re thinking, Nora!” he said, leaping from the Jeep and yelping as the drop was twice as far as he’d anticipated.
* * *
Heading east on Denham Thompson Way, Angler came to a T-junction with Walker Road. Across the street, surrounded by a tall chain-link fence, was the group of buildings he was looking for. According to his map, these were a variety of further education, conference centers, and administration offices attached to the local high school. He crossed over Walker and pulled into the parking lot, hiding the scooter behind a van.
Angler spotted a small, two-door Toyota with sun-faded silver paint which had both front windows down a few inches to vent the steamy tropical heat. He shook his head.
“Someone who trusted humanity enough to leave their windows down, deserves to get their car stolen,” he scoffed to himself.
It had been a while since he’d hot-wired a vehicle, and now it had been two in one day. He told himself it was always good to keep the skills sharp, although after the boat show gig he hoped to leave all this behind. He was too old for petty shit like this.
The old Toyota sparked into life and Angler groaned. The little car sounded like the muffler had been left along the road somewhere, and the air vents blew nothing but warm air. He wound the driver’s side window down, then reached over and managed to get the passenger side halfway down before the mechanism locked up.
He felt his blood pressure rising once more, and sat in the hot car visualizing the tropical beach he’d soon be resting his tired bones. He actually laughed as he realized he was on a beautiful tropical island dreaming about a beautiful tropical island. Still, he’d already worn out his welcome on this one, courtesy of an idiot in a kayak.
Backing out of the spot, he steered the little car toward the road and focused on which lane he’d use with the right-hand drive car. He promptly switched on the wipers instead of the turn signal and the crusty rubber blades screeched across the glass.
* * *
The young man whose scooter had been stolen was still at the dive shop, waiting on a ride home. He had no clue who’d taken his bike or any idea at what time, as he’d returned on the Honda from lunch at 12:30 p.m., then stepped out to leave at 4:00 p.m. One of his coworkers thought it was gone when they’d gone out back for a cigarette break around two, but they couldn’t be sure.
He also said a couple of divers had come in the shop complaining about clothes missing from the back of their car. Apparently, several bits of spare dive gear had been left untouched, but shorts, a shirt and a pair of flip-flops were missing.
By far the oddest mystery to the dive shop employees was the full set of dive gear in their bench rack by the steps. At first they’d guessed someone was coming back to dive again, but as they neared closing time, and the owner of the kit was yet to return, they’d begun scratching their heads.
“Sir, we believe the pilot made it to shore by Eden Rock,” Nora explained over the phone, having called the Detective Whittaker. “He may have had dive gear in the plane. We’ve found a set here that no one knows where it came from. Can you send someone from SOCO to check it out?”
Deek couldn’t hear the other end of the call, but from Nora’s responses it sounded like they were taking the idea that the pilot had made it out alive and well quite seriously now.
“Okay, I’ll look for private CCTV along South Church,” Nora said, then hung up.
“I’m not crazy,” Deek said as they jogged back to the Jeep and climbed in.
Nora started the CJ-7 and turned around. “Being right about this guy doesn’t make you not crazy, Deek,” she said, and AJ stifled a laugh.
Deek just grinned. Inside his heart was thumping. The gorgeous Scandinavian cop had remembered his name.
Nora pulled up to the road and while she was waiting for a gap in traffic, her phone buzzed. She handed it to AJ. “Read this for me.”
AJ took the phone and looked at the text message. “Shit. It’s Jazzy. She’s had to stay late and is asking if you can pick her up. She says she tried my mobile, which of course is on the boat.”
“Faen,” Nora muttered, and Deek guessed it meant something unsavory in Norwegian. “Tell her yes. We can be there in a few minutes.”
Deek was flung back in the seat as Nora took off up the road, then pulled himself forward and stuck his head between the two front seats. “Who’s Jazzy?”
“Her teenager,” AJ said, nodding at her friend.
Deek’s mouth fell open but nothing came out. He’d guessed AJ was in her late twenties, maybe early thirties, but Nora looked to be ten years younger. How on earth could she have a teenager?
AJ grinned. “Don’t worry, she didn’t give birth at age six,” she said, guessing what was rattling around Deek’s mind. “She’s Jazzy’s foster home.”
“Temporary foster home,” Nora corrected, as she turned left and drove faster than seemed appropriate down a narrow lane.
“Don’t you have to be, like… older to foster children?” Deek asked, hanging on tightly as Nora braked hard for a T-junction.
“Jazzy was living on the streets until Nora rescued her, so now Nora’s the only person Jazzy trusts. The authorities have bent the rules a bit and let her stick around.”
“Like chewing gum,” Nora added, turning right and accelerating down at a street called Walkers Road.
AJ laughed then pointed ahead. “There she is.”
Deek spotted a dark-skinned girl in a school uniform walking toward them. She had a huge mop of frizzy hair which she was busy tying back with a purple scrunchy. Nora slowed and stopped by the sidewalk.
“Jump in, I’m working,” Nora said, and Jazzy peered into the Jeep.
“Who’s this?” she asked, using the big rear tire to clamber in the back.
“I’m Deek Morrison,” he said and held out his hand.
Before she could shake, Nora abruptly accelerated while turning hard right in front of an oncoming car which braked and honked loudly.
“Bloody hell, Nora,” AJ gasped as everyone hung on to whatever they could grab. “We’re not in that much of a hurry!”
“We are now,” Nora replied, shifting gears as she pinned the gas pedal to the floor.
“Why?” AJ and Deek both shouted back.
“That’s your guy in the car up there,” she said, pointing to a silver Toyota two hundred yards ahead.
“But he stole a scooter!” Deek yelled. “Are you sure?”
The Toyota picked up speed ahead of them then suddenly whipped right onto a small residential street signed Windsor Park Road.
“I am now,” Nora replied, and slid the Jeep through the right turn with its oversized off-road tires screeching in complaint.