Dead Asleep (2 page)

Chapter 3

S
umner felt the house shudder with the explosion's force. Two small pictures fell off the wall next to his head. They hit the tile floor and the glass in the frames shattered. He flung open the laundry room door and released Susie, who shot into the yard. He followed, running fast, keeping behind her and racing up the road to the big house. The Akita soon appeared on the path's fringe and joined them. When he was far enough away he looked back. Flames leapt out of the front of the beach house and he could hear the piercing sound of a fire alarm.

At the top of the drive, Sumner saw several people milling around the big house's massive back deck. He climbed the last of the hill and took the steps two at a time up to the platform, where he saw Ardan Kemmer, who owned the estate.

A burly man, Kemmer had purchased the house during the era when Dutch citizens could utilize the islands of the Netherlands Antilles to avoid paying the full tax burden of their homeland. In recent years the treaties protecting funds held offshore were constantly being chipped away, and Kemmer faced multiple charges of tax evasion in his home country. Now, he was actively trying to sell the real estate and offload the mortgage. He wore a shiny black shirt open at the throat, gray cotton chino pants, and sandals.

“What the hell is going on?” he asked.

“Someone rigged a bomb to the front door,” Sumner said.

Four young women surrounded Kemmer. To Sumner, they all looked alike, young, with streaked blonde hair, eyebrows plucked to a skinny line, and huge lips that must have benefited from collagen injections. Kemmer owned a series of bars and brothels in Amsterdam, and Sumner assumed the women were employees. One looked scared at his announcement about the bomb blast, but the others seemed unconcerned. Kemmer's eyes lit up.

“Was the house totaled?”

“I don't know. But it's burning. You'd better call the fire department.” The girls ran to the edge of the deck to stare down at the beach house. Trees blocked the view but a trail of smoke could be seen rising from the general direction of the beach. “Never mind,” Sumner said, hearing sirens in the distance. “The alarm must have signaled them.” He watched as Kemmer seemed disappointed rather than relieved at the news that help was on the way. “I take it the house is insured?”

Kemmer nodded. “To the max. There's nothing of great value there.” As an afterthought he added, “Glad you didn't get hurt.”

Sumner wondered if that was indeed true. It was no secret that Kemmer was liquidating assets as fast as he could and moving the money into protected offshore accounts on other islands. It was also no secret that while Kemmer's business, both in women and in hashish, was legal in Amsterdam, he was not above transporting the occasional bit of illegal contraband throughout the Netherlands Antilles. Sumner had rented the beach house under an assumed name while investigating illegal drug flights, in the guise of a tourist on vacation, but the presence of the blonde at the casino and now the bomb told him that his cover was blown.

The blaring of a fire truck horn indicated that the department had reached the entrance. Kemmer went inside the house to press the button on the intercom that opened the gate, and Sumner watched the truck roll down to the house. When Kemmer reappeared, he was smoking a cigar, and strolling toward him with the air of someone completely unconcerned that at that very moment his beach house was burning to the ground not five hundred yards away. He returned to Sumner's side and handed him a cigar.

“You smoke?” he asked.

“Not usually.”

“They're good. Honduran. Hand rolled.” Sumner took the cigar and the lighter that Kemmer offered. “Any particular reason someone would want to blow you up?”

Sumner took his time to pull on the cigar. He'd only smoked cigars twice in his life and was no connoisseur, but this one was by far the smoothest he'd tried.

“None that I know of,” Sumner said.

“How about you tell me your real name,” Kemmer said. He pulled on his own smoke, his eyes never leaving Sumner's.

“You know my real name. It's on the lease.” Sumner watched Kemmer's look change to skepticism. “Was the blonde at the casino one of yours?”

Kemmer snorted. “I don't have any girls working the Antilles. I don't have a license for the brothels. It's illegal here.”

“I'm not in the business of busting call girls. You can tell me the truth.”

Kemmer laughed. “Listen to you, talking about truth.” He pointed in the direction of the beach house. “Someone wants you dead real bad. If I were you, I'd worry about that.”

“Or you. It's your beach house, remember. I'm just passing through. Anyone want you eliminated?”

Kemmer shrugged and waved toward the road. “I didn't get this far in my business without collecting a few enemies, I'll admit. What was the blonde up to?”

“She tried to warn me off coming home. If she had been successful I wouldn't have been anywhere near the house. That leads me to believe the bomb was meant for you, not me.” Kemmer scowled, then gave Sumner a sideways glance.

“Or she just liked a pretty face.”

Now it was Sumner's turn to snort. “She was working. At what, I don't know.”

The two men walked down the road together and turned a corner to find the fire department hosing down the front of the beach house. Smoke still rose into the sky, but the stream seemed to be weakening. A massive hole was all that was left of the front entrance. One of the firemen spotted them and headed their way. He flicked a glance at Sumner before addressing Kemmer.

“The fire's contained and should be out soon. This was arson, pure and simple. Do you have any idea who would want to do such a thing?” Kemmer gave the fireman the same story that he gave Sumner.

“How'd he get in here?” Kemmer asked. “I maintain security cameras on the front gate. Something tells me he didn't crawl in that way.”

The fireman gestured at the ocean. “We think he drove a boat right up to the beach. Got any cameras there?”

Kemmer shook his head. “I don't need to see pictures of myself or my guests when they swim naked.”

The fireman gave him a wan smile. “I advise you to set one up now. Whoever did this is bound to try again once they discover they failed.” He eyed Sumner. “Are you the renter?”

“I am. Can I go in? I don't have much there, but my clothes are still hanging in the master bedroom.”

“The bedroom was untouched, but I doubt that you'll want to keep your clothes once you smell them. Once the smoke gets in the fabric it's almost impossible to remove. You're welcome to see if you can salvage anything.”

Sumner struck out around the snaking fire hoses and past the gaping hole of an entrance, reentering at the laundry room and taking the hallway to the bedroom. The smell of burnt fabric, scorched carpeting, and blackened drywall hung in the air. He went into the bedroom and winced when he saw the thick cloud of smoke that filled it. He opened the closet door, grabbed the sleeve of a jacket and brought it to his nose. The ashy scent was unmistakable. The fireman was right; he'd have to buy all new clothes. Sumner grabbed his tablet computer, removed the leather cover and tossed it into the garbage. He opened a drawer in the nearby chest and removed a small titanium case. He left everything else there, including his leather shaving kit. When he walked out, he saw Kemmer standing at the property's edge.

“You're welcome at the big house,” Kemmer said.

Sumner was surprised. “Aren't you worried that I'm the target?”

Kemmer sighed. “Yes, but more worried that I am. You strike me as a useful type of guy to have around.”

“Well thanks, but I'll be moving on.” Sumner put the computer on the passenger seat of his car and slid behind the wheel. Kemmer leaned in, putting a hand on the open window ledge.

“If that blonde comes back this time, you listen to her.”

Sumner smiled. “You bet I will.” On his way out he paused at the gate to pat Susie's head when she ran up and put her massive paws on the door. “Thanks for the tip,” he said to the dog. Susie merely snuffled before dropping down again. Sumner continued along the twisting drive, using his brights to illuminate the dirt road and trees around him. At the base he stopped.

The blonde woman's body hung from a tree at the side of the road.

Chapter 4

S
umner threw the car into park and flung open the door. He ran up to the body. A dried trickle of blood came from a bullet hole in her temple. Her eyes were closed. He reached up to touch her bare calf. The body was cold. He hadn't been gone from the casino that long. She must have been killed shortly after he left.

An all encompassing anger started to bubble up from deep inside him. He stood there, staring at her. This was not the first time Sumner had encountered death, but the sight of the woman who had been so alive only a few minutes before now hanging from a tree, gone forever, outraged him. After a moment a beeping noise from the car invaded his consciousness. He returned and reached in to turn off the engine and pull the key out of the ignition.

“Such a waste.”

Sumner looked up at a woman who stepped into the moonlight. She was dressed in black and wore a balaclava over her face. He felt adrenaline kick into his system but relaxed when he saw that she didn't have a weapon. Her voice seemed familiar somehow, but he couldn't place it.

“Did you kill her?” he asked.

The woman shook her head. “No. I only wish I'd been able to stop it. Forgive me for not revealing my name, but my cover hasn't yet been blown and I can't. Yours has, though, so you need to get away from St. Martin as fast as you can.”

“I'm simply a tourist.”

“No you're not, Mr. Sumner.” That stopped him in his tracks. His cover was well and truly blown.

“Why should I believe what you say?”

“Banner asked me to collect you and take you to see him. Drive out and turn right. I have a red car parked on the other side of the gates. I'll follow you to the airport. Across the street from the terminal is a dock where we have a boat waiting to take you to St. Barths. I'll cover you to be sure you make it there alive.”

The name Banner was all Sumner needed to hear. Edward Banner and Carol Stromeyer ran a contract security company with high level clearance called Darkview. Sumner had never met Stromeyer, but Banner had saved his life in two prior situations, and Sumner made it a habit to do whatever Banner asked whenever possible. In this case, though, he waited for the code word to verify that the information truly came from Banner. He stayed still. The woman seemed to notice his inaction and said, “Oh, forgot to say. The code word is ‘alchemist.' ” He knew then that she was a Darkview operative, and the sound of her voice made the memory fall into place.

“Nice to meet you, Ms. Stromeyer,” he said, “even if I can't see your face.”

She didn't react in any way that he could see, but then, it was dark and she wore the balaclava, so he couldn't gauge any surprise at his use of her name. She said nothing in reply, merely turned and headed into the trees.

“We should call the police,” Sumner said, not moving.

She stopped, turned back and shook her head. “The fire department will find her soon enough. There's nothing we can do for her now.”

“Was she one of yours?” he asked. He assumed not, because if he was correct and the woman in black was Stromeyer, she wouldn't be as cool about the loss of a fellow agent.

“No, but I'm pretty sure she was working for one of the large estates on the island. If not Kemmer, then another one of the wealthy landowners.”

“Wealthy and dirty?”

She nodded. “To the core. I've been tracking their activities for two months now, and I can tell you there's not much they don't have their fingers into. Prostitution, drugs, money laundering, and now murder.” She indicated the body hanging from the tree.

“She tried to warn me about the explosion,” Sumner said.

“Huh, she must have taken a liking to you,” she said. Sumner shook his head.

“Nothing special about me.”

The woman gave a low laugh that Sumner found incredibly appealing. His mental vision of Stromeyer as a buttoned-up executive turned into something far more scintillating. Now he understood Banner's admiration for her. He wished he could see her face.

“Why is your boat taking me to St. Barths? I don't have a plane that I can use.” From the top of the hill behind him, he heard the sound of a large truck. “That must be the firemen,” he said.

In an instant the woman melted into the trees, disappearing into the darkness. Sumner gave one last look at the body hanging from the tree before putting the car in gear and continuing on his way.

He was only two kilometers from the estate when he picked up the tail. True to her word, the woman he thought of as Stromeyer was following him in a red convertible, a flashy car that he wouldn't have chosen for a tail, though it had the advantage of being easy to spot in the dark.

Behind her, though, he saw another vehicle, a black Land Rover with shaded windows and a huge silver grill. The road to the airport was one lane in spots and curved often, so it was entirely possible that the Land Rover was simply another tourist or islander heading home after a late night at the casinos, but he doubted it.

Sumner turned off the road and into a neighborhood, squeezing his car down a narrow lane rimmed with parked cars on one side and dilapidated shacks on the other. The light of a tavern sign with a silhouette of a naked woman arching her back was the only illumination other than the moon. After a minute he saw the Land Rover again, behind the red car, which was still following him. The Rover was moving slower now, since its size made the street barely passable. Something about the hulking piece of metal working its way through the narrow lanes made him wary. He reached to the seat behind him and grabbed the titanium case. He typed in the code on a small electronic keypad and the lock opened. His nine millimeter gun lay inside. He had the right to carry a weapon in the United States, but each island had its own rules, and he hadn't registered it with the authorities in St. Martin when he'd flown in. He suspected they knew that as a member of the ATD, he had one, but they hadn't bothered to probe too deeply.

The airport came up on his left and the dock across the road directly in front. His high beams illuminated the area, revealing a sleek cigarette boat tied up at the dock. A man leaned against a wooden support smoking a cigarette as he watched the car pull closer. Sumner killed the engine, put the gun in his waistband and climbed out. Stromeyer's red car pulled to the curb and idled across the street fifty feet away. He watched the Land Rover slow before turning left onto the airport frontage road that ran along the water. It, too, stopped about fifty feet away. The taillights went black when the Rover's engine was shut down.

Sumner picked up the tablet computer and gun case and started walking toward the dock. The smoking man pushed off the support and began a slow stroll toward him. He was tall, taller than Sumner's six feet plus, with dark skin and close-cropped hair. He walked with a swagger Sumner was used to seeing in the States but that seemed out of place in St. Martin. Like an islander trying to act ghetto and not quite pulling it off. It telegraphed the man's opinion of himself and told Sumner that he was dealing with an amateur. In fact, Sumner never worried much about shows of aggression. In his experience, the most deadly adversaries were those who telegraphed nothing before the strike. The man stopped when he was about ten feet away.

“You the one needing the ride to St. Barth?” He spoke in the singsong patter of Jamaica.

Before Sumner could respond, he heard the door of the Rover open. Swinging to the left, he pulled his weapon out of his waistband. The driver in the car had made one crucial error. In opening the door, he hadn't killed the overhead light. It lit the area and reflected off the gun in the man's hand. Sumner aimed, pulled the trigger, and shot him through the arm as he swung it up to fire. He heard the attacker grunt as the bullet entered his bicep.

He spun around then as the Jamaican on the dock pulled a knife. Sumner shot at him, too, deliberately targeting a spot a few inches from the man's face. The Jamaican yelled and dodged left. Sumner moved toward him, keeping his gun high. The man dropped the knife, letting it thud onto the boards.

“Don't be shooting, man,” he said. ”Me only doing what I was paid to do.” Sumner was upon the Jamaican now, staring into his dark, frightened eyes. The sodium lights above his head fizzed, but gave enough illumination for Sumner to see when his gaze flicked to the right.

Sumner's skin crawled and he heard the creak of the dock boards a second later. He let his legs collapse, dropping straight down, but knew his odds of beating a bullet in the back were slim. He turned his head to the right in time to see the new gunman take careful aim at his skull.

The man's body jerked and he stumbled, coming down on one knee. Sumner shot him then, full in the chest, but it was clear that his bullet wasn't required. The man fell to the ground, a wound in his neck pouring blood as the carotid artery pumped it out and onto the wooden deck. Seconds later he heard the unmistakable sound of a bullet being chambered.

The woman in black whom he'd assumed was Stromeyer passed over to the Jamaican.

“Give me the keys to the boat. Now.”

“That ain't my boat.”

She put the gun to his forehead.

“All right, all right.” The Jamaican fished a set of keys out and handed them to the woman.

“Tell Raynaud that the next time he crosses me, he'll regret it.”

The Jamaican shook his head. “Wasn't Raynaud.”

“Then who?”

“Never got his name. European guy. Sharp suit and skinny face. Said he owed that one a bullet.” The Jamaican waved at Sumner, who regained his feet.

“Owed me a bullet?” Sumner said.

The Jamaican nodded. “You and some dude named Caldridge.”