Cries of the Lost (5 page)

After an agonizing wait, I went back to my monitoring program.

There were three hits: “Japanese,” “American woman” and “American consulate”—all within the same phone call. I clicked on the recording.

“Status,” was the first word spoken, in a tone the analyzer described as abrupt.

“We talkin’ to the Japanese girl, inspector, but she not talkin’ back.”

“Nothing?”

“Just demandin’ to be turned over to the American consulate. We try to explain that we scoop her up before goin’ in there. Why should we turn her over now?”

“No questions about that?”

“No, sir. She just keep telling us to call the consulate, and all this nonsense about how kidnapping an American woman was going to spark an international incident.”

The line was quiet for a moment. Then the inspector said, “So she’s American. You know that.”

“She talk like an American and why else the American consulate? You told us to ID her, but she don’t touch nothing and won’t take food or water. This girl know from fingerprints and DNA. Maybe if we can bring her into the station . . .”

“No,” the boss said, cutting him off. “Can’t take that risk. Stay in the house and keep your heads down. We’re bargaining with the Americans now. Need to keep the merchandise safe. She has to eat and drink eventually. Give it another couple hours, then print her and swab her mouth whether she like it or not.”

When they broke the connection, I searched for more hits, adding a few new keywords like “swab” and “DNA.” A new list, sorted chronologically, appeared on the screen. I clicked on the first conversation:

“Inspector Josephson,” said the boss, answering the phone.

“We did like you say with the prints and swab. Man, that little Jap girl, she’s a tiger,” said the other man. He was breathing hard.

“Get that stuff over here.”

“On the way, inspector. Georgie bring it after he drop Antonio off at hospital. Girl near opened up his face with those claws.”

“Just get it over here.”

“He’s coming.”

The next call was an hour later, initiated by Josephson.

“Okay, Officer Brick, the girl’s name is Natsumi Fitzgerald. That’s all our American friends are giving up. They seriously want this person. You didn’t hurt her any?”

The other guy let out a sharp laugh. “All the hurtin’ was done to our side. You try swabbin’ a wild dog.”

“Tell her we now know everything about her. Tell her she’s in big trouble with the Americans, so she doesn’t want to go to that consulate. Tell her we can keep her in George Town long as she wants. Just need a little cooperation.”

“But we know nothing but her name.”

The inspector sighed.

“She doesn’t know that. We got her name, that’s good enough. You never interrogate anybody? Do I got to come over there?”

“No, sir. I’ll call back in an hour.”

He was true to his word.

“She don’t care about our story, inspector. She still demanding to go to the consulate. She say her name’s Zelda, not Natsumi. And she drank a lot out of the bathroom faucet when she went to take a piss. I think it gave her a boost.”

I could hear the thoughts of the inspector as he absorbed that last bit.

“Brilliant, officer. Just brilliant.”

“Can’t be watchin’ a woman take a piss, sir.”

“You like your job?”

”Yes, inspector.”

“Watch her take a piss. Just don’t look like you’re enjoying it.”

“Yes, inspector.”

The next calls were innocuous and inconclusive. Natsumi was holding firm and there was no movement on the negotiations with the Americans, whose exact identity was never revealed. Near the bottom of the list, things took a bad turn.

“Time to move the Japanese girl,” said the inspector.

“We bringin’ her in?”

“No, need a new place to be keeping her. The Americans getting hostile. Say they send the Seals, bust up the place, put on the diplomatic pressure. This thing’s startin’ to get ahead of my pay grade.”

“They don’t know we’re here,” the officer said, in a plaintive way.

“Brick, you don’t know these people. They got ways of knowing shit we never dream of. Get out of there and come see me when you’re secure.”

Damn it all to hell, I said to myself. I clicked on the last call on the list, placed only an hour before. The incoming call to HQ was from a new number, a different cell was my guess.

“We all settlin’ down and comfy, inspector. I be by to discuss.”

“No. Meet me at Henrique’s. At the bar. No uniforms.”

“Aye, sir. Understood.”

The second they clicked off, I jumped over to Google and searched for bars or restaurants called Henrique’s. Nothing. Then I searched the name and got more than I could sift through in short order. I went back to restaurants and bars and searched each site for anyone named Henrique. I tried not to look at the time as I felt the opportunity drain away.

I went back to Henrique the name, and tried coupling it to anything bar related.

Then bingo. Henrique Fox, Bartender of the Year 2007. Still holding court at the Crazy Parrot Caribbean Grill and Saloon. I clicked over to their site. One block from my hotel.

I ran into the bathroom and stared at myself in the mirror. For comfort, I’d removed the Bernie Madoff disguise, and there was no time to put it back on. Under the hat and wig was my shiny bald head. I put on a pair of black-framed glasses and a loud tropical shirt over a white T-shirt and white linen pants. I also brought along a dark blue lightweight blazer and a different baseball cap.

It would have to do.

The Crazy Parrot was easy to spot, a giant neon sign depicting its namesake hanging above the door of a tattered, Colonial-era stucco building. Inside was a clean, brightly lit if well-worn space, painted in the usual array of brilliant Caribbean colors. Most of the floor space was taken up by the bar, with maybe a dozen tables lining the opposite wall. I sat at the bar, ignoring the other guests as I looked expectantly at the bartender.

Once I had a beer in hand, I looked around the place. It was thinly patronized, mostly by small groups of men and women. Five men sat at the bar, one solo and two pairs engaged with each other in conversation.

There’s an old trope in books about cops and robbers that the cops are always easy to pick out of a crowd, even in civilian clothes. It sounds sort of believable, but it’s not exactly true. Normal, non-narcissistic cops look and act like everyone else when they’re off duty. So either pair at the bar could have been my quarry.

I first concentrated on the two with the greater age difference. The older man was doing most of the talking. He was bigger than the younger man, who showed a hint of deference in the way he actively listened. There was a TV above the bar showing a soccer game. I moved behind them, ostensibly to watch, which half worked. I would have been close enough to overhear them speak, if it hadn’t been for the TV.

So I stared at the TV, sipped my beer and tried to will their voices into the auditory range. Unsuccessfully.

The solitary drinker got up and left, so I took his seat next to the other pair of guys. It only took a few minutes to eliminate them from consideration. I fought the impulse to look down the bar as I finished my beer and sauntered back out to the street. I climbed into the Ford, from which I had a good view of the entrance under the giant parrot, and waited.

The older man, I assumed the inspector, came out first with a cell phone held to his head. He continued talking as he climbed into a stripped-down Honda Accord and drove away. His officer was another half hour, likely taking the opportunity to get in a few extra beers. He crossed the street and got into a white, nondescript coupe of likely European origin. I pulled out of my spot and did an unhurried three-point turn a dozen feet down the street, coming around just in time to see the white car turn left at the end of the block. I turned on red, and again, caught the rear of the white car just as it made another left. This brought him out to a wider avenue that ran parallel to the waterfront. I was able to settle into a reasonable distance behind, and even allow a vehicle or two to get between us without losing sight of my quarry.

The avenue followed the coast to the south, through an affluent, gate-heavy residential area, then around to the east, where traffic thinned and the white car picked up the pace. I felt the strain as competing impulses—close in or drop back—fought in my chest. I picked the wiser competitor and let some more air open up between us.

We were well clear of George Town by this time, zooming toward Bodden Town, the second largest municipality on Grand Cayman. We almost got there. With little warning, the white car took a fast right down a narrow road paved in crazed macadam festooned with sprouts of ragged grass. It looked too confining and too exposed at the same time, so I slid by and pulled off to the side of the road. I punched up the maps function on my smartphone and located my position. The sandy road led south toward the coast, where a cluster of streets hugged the beach.

It was the only way in and the only way out.

I drove back and slunk down the road. The white car was out of view, which was favorable to a point. I moved slowly, scanning for taillights, or the colorless gleam of moonlight off white car paint.

I made it all the way to the sea with no results. I’d passed a few side streets along the way, so I backtracked and toured a pair of tiny neighborhoods of single-storey cottages with colorful stucco walls and tile roofs, but no white coupe.

I went back down to the coast and explored the last option, another settlement, with some of the homes directly on the sea, which I could hear after lowering the window of the SUV.

And there it was. A white car parked next to a large van, behind a house that faced the beach. Inside the house, with a high degree of probability, was Natsumi Fitzgerald. Hungry, thirsty, likely frightened, yet doggedly determined.

I
SPED
back to the hotel and emptied the room, loading everything into the rented SUV. Then I drove south toward the airport through the windy Caribbean night. I felt my chest start to tighten as I played my mind forward to the next few moves.

What I needed first was a place, a hotel or motel, as close to the airport as possible. And it had to possess a few key qualities. So I forced myself to concentrate on that task, ignoring the escalating stress reactions as I circled my destination with no viable candidates in place.

I’d just begun to fashion alternative strategies when I saw the sign,
FIRST AND LAST RESORT
, outside a forlorn cluster of tiny bungalows guarded by an office building with a shiny tin roof, lit by a powerful floodlight mounted on a nearby telephone pole.

I pulled in.

The guy at the desk inside the office had been on this earth a very long time. His skin was the color and texture of weathered leather. His thick, flat nose covered most of his face, and I could see his eyes, despite the low light, were black marbles set inside golden ponds. A cigarette was tucked between his fingers, and a small glass, filled with dark rum, was close at hand.

“I need a room,” I said.

He thought about that for moment. “No other reason to be here, I reckon,” he said, his voice more British than island lilt, and all coarse grit sandpaper, wetted down.

“You got one?” I asked.

“You got money?”

“I do.”

“Then we got one. Our best, near the back. Quieter.” He pointed his finger at the sky and moved it back and forth. “Lots of planes up there.”

“That’s perfect,” I said, handing him my credit card.

I waited as patiently as I could through the laborious check-in process. His hands were steady, but achingly deliberate, dedicating equal time to running through the paperwork, pulling on the long filter-less cigarette and sipping from the small, rum-filled glass.

He put a big brass key tied to a thick plastic tag with the address of the motel on the counter. He tapped his fingers on the key before sliding it across to me. “Number’s on the side of the building, but I can show you. If you’re feeling confused.”

I assured him I was fine navigating on my own, and thanked him again for accommodating me.

He shrugged the longest shrug I’d ever seen. About two minutes up, and twice that down. “No matter,” he said. “You get lost bad enough, we got the authorities to do the retrievin’. Got to do something with all those taxes, right then?”