A Quarter for a Kiss (20 page)

“Hmm…” I said, not daring to comment.

“Yesterday, he got down with me in the pit and showed me how to brush the dirt off this little zemi. Gosh, I don’t know how the other women who work there can stand it. I didn’t hear a word he said.”

“What’s a zemi?” I asked.

“Some kind of Taino idol, I think. They’ve already found hundreds of them. This one was cool. It was carved with the face of a crocodile, about the size of my fist.”

We finished the dishes and I wiped off the table while she recounted some of the more interesting finds the team had already uncovered. Apparently, there was a long process that only started with unearthing the artifacts. Then they had to be extensively mapped and photographed, sorted, cleaned, weighed, counted, logged, analyzed, radiocarbon-dated and finally put into climate-controlled storage.

I only half listened as she recounted the process, my mind already working toward our upcoming visit to the police station. After a difficult night, I was eager to get moving on this investigation. The conversation with Chris Fisher had left me rattled and apprehensive. The sooner Tom and I could get down to the truth of the matter, the better.

“While you’re waiting for Sandy to get you the paperwork,” I said, forcing myself to focus on Jodi, “there are also a few other things you can do.”

I dried my hands, and then I found paper and a pencil and wrote down some websites she could visit to check out the nonprofit.

“These are mostly watchdog groups like the Better Business Bureau and Guidestar. See what pops up for SPICE. You might be pleasantly surprised, or you might find some red flags.”

“Thanks, Callie,” she said, taking the list from me.

“Just remember one rule of thumb,” I said, putting the cap on the pen. “Don’t make up your mind one way or the other until all the facts are in. You’re not trying to prove if it’s good or it’s bad based on some preconceived notion you have. You’re just trying to find all of the information out there so then you can make a wise and informed decision.”

“So I guess I should put the bearer bonds away for now?”

I looked at her.

“Tell me you’re kidding,” I said. “Did you really bring three hundred thousand dollars’ worth of bearer bonds down here?”

She shrugged.

“I thought I might be giving them away to SPICE.”

I tried not to groan.

“Well, until it’s time,” I said, thinking of Eli’s spy closet, “would you like for me to put them in a safe place for you?”

“Sure,” she replied, and then she stunned me by simply pulling them from her purse and handing them over.

I waited until she had left, and then I opened the hidden closet and put the envelope on the top shelf, out of sight. It wasn’t a perfect hiding place—a safety deposit box at a local bank would’ve been better—but it would have to do for now.

Twenty-Two

Sergeant Abraham Ruhl wasn’t too hard to find. We called ahead to the police station and were told he had just left for Francis Bay. Some tourists were trapped there, feeling threatened by a trio of feral donkeys, and Sgt. Ruhl had gone along to save the day.

We followed the map to the bay and then stopped the car beside the road in beach parking that was empty except for a police car and two other vehicles. We weren’t quite sure what “feral donkeys” would do, so we left the car unlocked and made our way up the path toward the beach in a cautious manner.

The sound of braying came from up ahead, and Tom and I moved closer together as we walked. We could also hear a man shouting over the sound of the donkeys. As we stepped through the brush, we could see the gorgeous beach and the water and the scene that was unfolding down the way. There seemed to be two couples there, all in bathing suits, standing beside their towels and kind of huddled together. A dark-skinned man in a crisp police uniform was tossing sticks and rocks toward a small donkey that seemed to be stuck in a bush.

“Can we help?” Tom asked as we drew closer, making a wide arc around the other two donkeys.

“Ah, the baby is separated from the mama!” he cried, tossing another rock. “He can get himself free from dat bush if he just want it bad enough.”

The little donkey did seem to be growing more agitated. As the two large donkeys made even more of a ruckus, and the policeman threw rocks at the little guy’s rump, he started kicking and jumping until, finally, he burst free of the vines that had ensnared him. Once he made it clear to the sand, he shook himself off, flicked his tail, and then the three donkeys turned and simply walked away.

The two couples thanked the officer, all looking greatly relieved. The sergeant waved away their thanks before turning to head back to his car.

“The donkeys won’t bother you if you don’t bother them,” he said. “It’s their island too.”

We tailed along behind him back to the parking area. When we were out of earshot of the people on the beach, Tom called to him.

“Sergeant Ruhl.”

“Yeah, mon?” he asked, not seeming surprised that we knew his name.

“We need to talk to you. The dispatcher said you would be here.”

He glanced back at us and kept walking.

“What is it?” he asked.

“We’re friends of Eli Gold,” I said.

That stopped him straight away.

“Eli!” he said, turning to face us with a wide grin. “Well, why didn’t you say so? How is the old coot? Are they back in town?”

Tom and I glanced at each other.

“No,” I said. “Eli’s been hurt, actually. He was shot by a sniper. He’s in a coma. In Florida.”

The man stepped closer.

“Shot?” he asked. “Will he live?”

“It happened Friday night,” I said, “and he’s still hanging on. According to the doctors, every day he makes it through increases his chances of surviving.”

“What happened?”

The three of us walked to the shade near the rental car and leaned against the hood, talking. Tom and I explained the entire incident. The sergeant took it all in while chewing on a toothpick he had produced from his pocket.

“So now we’ve taken over the investigation that he had been doing,” I said, “because it seems like the sniper shot was a direct result of that.”

He nodded thoughtfully.

“So what has any of this to do with me?” he asked. “I’m glad to know about Eli, but how can I help?”

“We’re not quite sure,” Tom admitted. “Your initials are in his case notes. He came to you to run a license plate back in December. It’s relevant to the case somehow, and we’re wondering if there’s anything you can tell us.”

He shook his head, flicking the toothpick into the brush and standing as if to go.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “We don’t run plates for civilians. It must’ve been somebody else.”

He walked to his car and opened the door.

“Please,” I said. “We’re not here to make trouble. It doesn’t matter if you ran plates or not. We just want to know about Earl and Dianne Streep. We want to know what you know.”

“Sorry,” he said abruptly. “Can’t help you.”

“Don’t worry, Callie,” Tom said quickly. “We can just go down to the police station and ask around until we find out who else has the initial ‘A’ and is a friend of Eli’s. I’m sure we’ll find the man who ran that plate.”

That seemed to give the policeman pause. If he had already done something he wasn’t supposed to do, giving us the cold shoulder now would only make things worse for him.

“Did you say Callie?” he asked, pulling down his dark glasses to look at me.

“Yes,” I said, walking toward him to hold out my hand. “I’m sorry, we didn’t introduce ourselves. I’m Callie Webber. And this is my associate, Tom Bennett.”

He pulled his glasses off and shook my hand, finally looking me in the eye.

“Callie Webber,” he said. “I know who you are. Eli has talked of you many a time.”

“He has?”

“You are the protégé. He say you are almost a better detective than he is.”

I smiled.

“That’s not true,” I replied. “But I’ll be sure to thank him for the compliment.”

“But now, who are you?” he asked, gesturing toward Tom.

“Tom’s my boss,” I replied. “He’s helping me with the investigation.”

The officer looked at Tom skeptically for a moment.

“I don’t know you. I won’t talk to you.”

“I understand,” Tom said, holding up both hands and stepping back.

“You, on the other hand,” the officer said, turning to me, “at least I know who Callie Webber is. Tell me something to prove it’s really you.”

“I have ID,” I offered, reaching into my bag.

“Anybody can get ID. Tell me something about Eli that only Callie Webber would know.”

I thought for a moment, my mind racing.

“He puts mustard on French fries instead of ketchup,” I said finally.

Both men laughed.

“Something a little more personal,” the officer said. “From his past, maybe. Do you know the real story of how he lost the tip of his toe?”

I nodded, wondering if
he
knew the real story.

“Eli tells people it was frostbite,” I said. “While hiking in the Alps.”

“Yes, he does.”

“The real truth is that when he was eight years old, he accidentally slammed his toe in the icebox.”

Tom chuckled, the story new to him.

The sergeant reached out and shook my hand a second time.

“If you’ll excuse us, Mr. Bennett,” he said, “this lady and I have some talking to do.”

“By all means.”

“We’ll be back in a bit.”

The cop pointed toward the police car, and I climbed in.

“For starters, you can call me Abraham,” the officer said, starting the engine.

“Should Tom follow in our car?” I asked.

“Nah,” he said, “we’re just going for a little ride.”

With a wave, we drove away, leaving Tom standing there on the beach.

Twenty-Three

“What we have here is a very unusual situation,” Abraham said. “A lot has happened since Eli showed up at my door on New Year’s Eve and traded a bottle of champagne for a name and an address. Because you are a detective and a friend of my friend, I will tell you some of it.”

“You can trust me,” I said, glancing back toward Tom, who gave me a small wave. I hoped he would be okay until we got back. Knowing he was a big boy and could take care of himself, I decided to put him out of my mind and concentrate on the situation at hand.

We reached Northshore Road and Abraham turned right, driving toward town.

“Do you know anything about art theft?” he asked, steering around a wide curve that went steeply uphill. “Antiquities and such?”

Art theft?
That certainly wasn’t what I had expected to hear.

“Not really,” I said. “I’ve read a few articles, seen some TV shows…”

“Well, I didn’t know much about it either until I got a call a couple weeks ago from Interpol.”

“Interpol? Really?”

“Yes. They have an art crimes division and it seems our little island has come to their attention. I don’t need to go into detail, but basically they believe there is a small group of people in St. John facilitating the sale of stolen art and antiquities. The group is well run and tightly knit, and so far Interpol has been unable to crack it.”

“You mean someone here on the island is acting as a fence for stolen art?”

“A fence. Exactly. They’ve got a pretty good system set up too.”

He put on his blinker and slowed, turning into the massive gates of an expensive-looking resort hotel called the Sugar Manse.

“St. John is a beautiful place, and many of our guests are very wealthy. A lot of the wealthiest ones stay in resorts like this one.”

He turned down the winding, perfectly manicured streets of the resort complex, past tasteful bungalow-like structures. I wasn’t sure what we were doing there, but I doubted we were on our way to visit Interpol agents. These rooms had to rent for at least five or six hundred dollars a night each, something no mere police organization could likely afford—even a big, influential one.

“Rich people, they love to buy and sell art. Sometimes the art is legitimate, sometimes it’s not. Sometimes the buyers don’t even care, as long as the piece continues to appreciate in value—or it fits nicely in their ‘collection.’”