No Sin in Paradise (2 page)

“Me?” I swallow a lump of wine down the wrong pipe and begin to cough. It takes me a minute to recover. “What about me?”

“Every day I see you watch as those planes land, hoping and looking for something or someone. Who is it?”

I don't like talking about myself, and my line of work makes it easy for me to not talk about myself, since I'm always focused on everyone else. I don't have to deal with the demons that lie within me. I pacify them with a paradoxical cocktail of prayer, alcohol, and nicotine.

At least . . . that was the case until now. I gaze into the flames and think of only one person who can make this night perfect.

“Victory.”

“Who?” Sam asks.

“She is a woman I met recently, and I gave her an open ticket to fly out here. Each day I wonder if she is on one of those incoming flights.”

“She must be a cold piece of work to be named Victory,” Sam says, “and you must be the biggest fool I've ever seen to be out here without her.”

“I'm trying to tell you,” Adele says.

The one time these two agree with each other . . . and it's at my expense. Sam is right.

I am a fool; a fool to think that Victory and I have something special, that my time in Sacramento was not a waste. Love is a cold game, and I'm not ashamed to admit that I don't have the stomach for combat involving matters of the heart.

“She'll come,” Adele says, as certain as she is sitting along the fire breathing.

We spend a long time in silence watching the crackling of the fire. It feels good to be in the company of people who can appreciate silence as much as I do.

“What time is it?” Adele asks.

Sammy and I both look down at our watches.

“It's about ten o'clock,” I say.

“Oh my goodness,
Justified
is on. Sitting around fooling with y'all two, I almost missed my Raylan Givens.”

Adele takes off heading toward her house like an Olympic sprinter.

 

 

An hour later the show concludes. Sam was not invited to watch
Justified
so he went on home with the promise that he and I would hook up later.

“Whoo wee, I just love my Raylan Givens, especially when he asks folks if they are willing to bet their life on it.”

“Yea, it's a good show.” It has a little too much violence for my taste, but I see why Adele finds the show appealing.

“Do you mind if we watch the nightly news?” I ask.

“Sure, sugar.” Adele hands me the remote, and I change to the news station.

A breaking news bulletin appears on the scene with a local reporter. I still haven't adjusted to the contrast between the news out in the States and the news on the island. In the U.S., our news primarily focuses on what's going on domestically, while out here in the islands, the news is focused on what's going on internationally.

“Breaking news: tragedy struck this Faith Conference when the keynote speaker Pastor Jeremiah Cole was found dead.”

“Oh my Lord,” Adele says.

My Lord is right. A famous pastor is found dead on an island next to mine. What could that mean for my vacation?

I wade in the warm water and let the tame waves pass around my body. With my arms outstretched and my eyes closed, I pray to God for peace, for direction, and on this day, I pray for a fallen comrade, Pastor Jeremiah Cole. In truth, I never liked Pastor Cole. I never got a phone call from his peoples, and he taught a capitalistic view of the scriptures that I vehemently disagreed with. In this day and age, I feel like the people of God need to be made whole more than they need a new Mercedes. Pastor Cole thought different; at least, that is what his sermons suggest. However, I wouldn't wish hell nor suffering on my worst enemy. I pray that Pastor Cole was square with the Lord by the time he checked out of this life and into eternity.

I open my eyes and take one look into the sky and see a clear path to God; nothing in the way except for smoke clouds. I start my day the same way I have started it since I arrived here for vacation. I go for a swim and relax. I cut through the walk, tilting my head from side to side. I feel a slight burn in my legs and arms as I continue to push for another mile until the inside of my body feels like it's consumed by a fire. I then dip underneath the water and observe the multicolor corral reefs before maneuvering my body in the opposite direction.

I come up for air and after a moment of wiping the water from my face, I see that the shore is a short distance away. It won't take long for me to get back, but it's a little more challenging to get back when your energy is spent. I start off well toward the shore, but the burning inside of me comes on quick, and I start to slow down. Here is where my will has to push me past the pain, so I keep pushing, digging, and twisting my head from side to side. My will to reach the shore subdues any pain that I may be feeling at the present moment.

Eventually I arrive at shore with my body exhausted, and that concludes my morning exercise. I lie out on the sand and catch my breath.

“Nic!”

I look up and see Adele waving for me to come in. If there is one thing I love more than swimming, it's Adele's cooking. I regain my breath and do a light sprint up the beach toward the house. Adele has a white two-story house that looks like it was plucked out of the suburbs of North Carolina and landed on the beach.

She has a breakfast nook on her deck that faces the massive Caribbean Sea. Every morning I sit out on the deck with Adele, and we eat our breakfast while enjoying the picturesque view. One would think we were a part of a painting, which sits in one of those upscale Beverly Hills doctors' offices. I walk into Adele's nook and pull out a chair for her.

“Thank you, sugar,” Adele says.

“With pleasure,” I say after I sit on the opposite side of her and begin to serve us up some breakfast. Adele has made her famous Salmon Croquet along with grits and eggs. She also made freshly squeezed orange juice. After we pray, we break bread. The meal is great, even though today the Salmon Croquet is a little too salty. Adele must've been distracted, and I know why.

“I still can't get my mind off of Pastor Jeremiah Cole,” she says.

“Yeah, that's tragic.”

“Why would anyone want to kill a man of God?”

“Adele, you'd be surprised. The possibilities are endless.” I am not sure if Pastor Cole is a true man of God or if he was just posing as one. Nevertheless, murder is murder, and the grim details of Pastor Cole taking two shots in the back of the head gives me the chills.

“It's a scary time when folks start killing ministers.” Adele got the shakes from her statement.

“It sure is,” I say.

“We have to pray for his family. That's a shock, and the deaths you don't expect to happen are a lot tougher to get over,” Adele says.

Now I know that I am not Mr. Happy-Go-Lucky. I'm not built that way. I am pragmatic in my approach, and while I believe that all things work together for a greater good, I also believe that life does not fit into a nice bow. With that being said, I have to agree with Adele when she says that we are living in a dangerous time when a preacher can be murdered with little regard of divine consequences.

I hate when I get this feeling, this feeling of duty. All I want to do is enjoy my vacation, but part of me feels like I cannot have peace as long as there are questions looming over me about Pastor Cole. Why would anyone want to kill him? Is the murderer still around?

“You know, I was thinking of going down to the island and paying my respects to Pastor Cole.”

“That sounds like a good idea,” Adele says.

“What sounds like a good idea?” Sam asks as he approaches the nook from the shore.

“Go away, Sam. Folks weren't talking to you,” Adele says.

“We're talking about Pastor Cole,” I say.

“Oh yeah, that's some cold business right there.” Sam takes off his baseball cap and scratches the back of his head.

“I was thinking about going over to the island next door and paying my respects to Pastor Cole.”

“Say the word and we can take my boat,” Sam replies.

“Sammy, don't nobody want to get on your cursed boat,” Adele says.

As much as I love Sam, Pastor Cole's body would've been sent back to Atlanta, Georgia, where he's from by the time Sam's boat reaches the dock.

“Actually, Sam, time is of the essence, and I'm going to need a flight. Do you know of any charter pilots?”

Adele lets out a laugh as if I have just missed a private joke.

“Yeah, I know someone,” Sam says, absent his flair and panache.

“Is he any good?” I ask.

“Whew, Lord!” Adele says.

Adele can't stop laughing and I wondering what is so funny.

“What?” I ask.

“Oh, nothing.”

Whoever this pilot is, I hope he can get me to this island in one piece.

 

 

Sammy gives me a ride in his pickup truck. The road out in the island is so narrow that an American driver would have a difficult time. Even though the lanes are painted for two cars to travel on, it's easier said than done. There is only one major road throughout the island, and Sam and I took it all the way to Paradise airport.

At the airport, even the landing strip is very narrow, but I watch the plane land perfectly on the runway. I hope that is my pilot because I am very familiar with the stories of Kennedy, John Denver, and Aaliyah.

“Is that my pilot?” I ask.

“Uh-huh,” Sam says. His voice still lacks the flair that I have been accustomed to hearing.

The plane's propellers come to a stop, and I get out of the truck and shut the door. I thought that Sam would get out of the vehicle to introduce me to the pilot, but instead, he stays in the truck. I walk toward the plane and see a dark male figure walking toward me. I can only assume it's my pilot.

“How do you know this pilot?” I ask, but before I could turn around to look at Sam for a response, he not only turned on the ignition, but he backed up and pulled away.

“What the heck is wrong with him?'” I ask myself before I turn around and see the dark figure in a pilot uniform within a few feet of me.

“Nic Dungy.” He extends his hand, and I shake it. “Hi, I'm Donny Moses.”

“That means you must be Sam Moses' . . .” I just made the connection.

“Son,” Donny says with more annoyance than gratitude.

There is a story as to why the father and son can't be in the same air space, but that is for another time. Right now, I have to get to Green Cove.

“Are you ready to go?” Donny asks.

“Yes, I am,” I say, but I am not sure what I will find when I get there.

The island looks like a crooked letter
I
from up in the air. The water is more of a teal color with white tips. Back at home, I wouldn't be able to see water that looks like the water that surrounds the Bahamas. Donny maneuvers the plane and aims for a thin landing strip. He touches down on the narrow landing strip with ease. For Donny, I believe it's another day at the office.

“How long have you been flying?” I ask.

“Six years. It always was a dream, but I never decided to pursue it until I got laid off from Boeing after twenty-three years.”

Losing a job can be very stressful, but then I hear stories like Donny's and realize that God always has a plan for our lives, even when it seems like the world doesn't. If I had to guess based on what transpired at Crystal Cove airport, Sammy is a touchy subject for Donny, so I won't pry; instead, I'll sit back and enjoy the flight.

“So you're from California?” Donny asks.

I nod my head in agreement.

“Boy, I sure do enjoy watching my Heat beat up on your Lakers.”

“Aw, man, just fly the plane,” I say.

Donny and I enjoy a few good laughs, and we even get a chance to talk about the Bible before he makes a soft landing onto the landing strip of the Green Cove airport.

“Well, here we are,” Donny says as he unfastens his seat belt.

“Thanks so much.”

“How long you plan to be here?” he asks.

“I'm only going to be a couple of hours, three at the most.”

“Well, I'll be here waiting for you,” Donny says.

I hear the sound of a horn, and I look over and see off in the distance a kid with long dreads waving me down as if he knew me. The boy has a motorcycle with a cart attached to it.

“Who is that?” I ask.

“Cameron, a knucklehead-turned-entrepreneur. He calls himself running a taxi service,” Donny says while he ties the plane down.

“You know anyone who has ridden with him?”

“No,” Donny says without hesitation. “Feel free to risk your life after we clear customs.”

I clear customs without any problems, and when I got on the other side of the airport, there is Cameron still waiting for me to hitch a ride on his truck. Even though Donny's answer is disconcerting, I love an underdog, so I decide to approach the young entrepreneur. The closer I get, the wider Cameron's smile grows.

“Good afternoon, fam. Cameron here is the fastest taxi on the entire island.”

“I'll be the judge of that. I need to get to the Marquee Hotel pronto,” I reply.

“No problem, boss. Cameron will get you there pronto,” Cameron says.

“Are you going to refer to yourself in third person the whole ride?”

“Yes, sir,” Cameron says.

I shake my head and chuckle to myself as I climb into the two-seat cart connected to Cameron's motorcycle. I didn't even get into the cart all the way when Cameron presses on his accelerator and takes off. I fall back into my seat, and I can hear Donny laughing his butt off in the distance. With nothing more than my pride damaged, I adjust in my seat. I resolve that I will need a back brace before this ride is over because these seats are far from comfortable.

“Hang on, fam. Cameron has everything under control.”

I suspect Cameron didn't have anything under control. This island's roads are more developed on this island than on the island that I was on. This road has three lanes, and Cameron uses all three lanes. The motorcycle weaves in and out of the lanes, and the cart follows close behind.

I thank God that Cameron has good enough sense to have the hitch so tight together that I didn't swerve when the cart switches lanes. I will say this, Cameron does not mess around. He is fast and knows the island and the routes well. I can also tell that this island has more corral reef viewpoints and oceans, hence, the name Green Cove, and that makes it more appealing than its less-than-fifty-miles neighbor.

Cameron makes a hard right turn off the main road and down a steep hill. I'm certain this will cause the cart to turn over and I will be sent flying into my death. Cameron, however, remains vigilant and kept both the bike and the cart on course.

We arrive at the bottom of the hill where a hotel sits less than a hundred feet away from the shore. The architecture of the house resembles a state building, and thus, the hotel looks as if it has no earthly business being on the beach. The place isn't crawling with local law enforcement; just a few Jeeps with sirens attached to the roof of the vehicle. This is a place where a gruesome murder of an internationally renowned pastor took place.

Even though there is a police presence at the scene, I notice that the presence is light, and I am somewhat disappointed. I vehemently opposed Pastor Cole on a theological level, but from a humane perspective, a man of his stature deserves more of an outcry. But that is just the way this world is. A lawmaker can spend his entire tenure breaking every moral code and use his power to put his foot on the necks of his constituents, and yet, he receives a military salute and ongoing investigation. I realize that will probably not be the case for Pastor Cole, however. The church community will have a great celebration of his legacy, and preachers from all around will come and try to outdo each other in the best eulogy. There will, without a doubt, be a concert from Gospel-recording artists to choirs, and then silence. The center stage will be empty until the battle over supremacy for Pastor Cole's church is over. That's what awaits Pastor Cole's followers.

“Here you go, fam. Cameron told you I would get you there fast.” Cameron bothers himself to open the cart door to let me out.

“Thank you,” I say as I stumble to get out of the cart. Though I'm not Catholic, I cross myself as if I was and reach into my pocket and hand him a hundred-dollar bill.

Cameron's eyes light up when he sees the money. “Thank you, fam. If you ever need a ride, you just let Cameron know.”

Hopefully, I won't. “Okay, just be careful, all right?”

“Sure!” Just like that, Cameron hops on his motorcycle and guns his bike.

I walk toward the hotel somewhat perplexed. Though this is a luxurious hotel, I have seen Pastor Cole fill up stadiums. I wonder why of all of the places Pastor Cole can have his international conference, he chooses to have his conference here.

I walk past the police officers who aren't doing anything but passing the time. I enter the hotel and see a bunch of people in their uniforms running around. In the midst of a murder investigation, the hotel staff still tries to attend to the whims of their guests. The report says that Pastor Cole was shot and killed in his hotel room. The police officers that are on the inside of the hotel make their way up and down the staircase. Pastor Cole's hotel room must've been in the back because some of the police officers would disappear once they reach the second floor. For a second, one wouldn't think that a murder has taken place, just that the hotel is extremely busy.

The conference is taking place in the back of the hotel, so I make my way past the staircase and the front desk and down a narrow hallway. While planning for this trip, I thought about staying in Green Cove and staying in this very hotel. I am thankful for my decision to go to a more secluded island.

I arrive at the outside of the conference room. Two gentlemen stand guard in front of the closed doors.

“I'm Minister Nicodemus Dungy. I'm here to offer my—”

I couldn't even finish my sentence before the man's eyes enlarged as if I am some kind of a celebrity.

“Right this way, Minister Dungy.” The man takes me by the arm before I even have a chance to protest. We cross the lobby and head toward the back of the room.

I enter the conference room and the who's who of ministers are in attendance. I see Pastor Christie from Higher Ground in Philadelphia, a former client. Then there is Pastor Richardson from Milwaukee, seventeen thousand members strong.

I even see Pastor Gerald Watkins from Powerhouse Faith in Chicago, also a former client. The list goes on and on, and my curiosity grows. With this many prominent pastors on this small exotic island, I wonder if there is more going on than just an international convention. I could be wrong, but my track record suggests otherwise.

Pastor William Bryant enters the conference room. He and Pastor Cole are as thick as thieves. No surprise as to why he is here. He has one of the two largest ministries in the country, and he is one of the main keynote speakers. Pastor Bryant is head and shoulders taller than any other man in the room, and he reinforces his stature with a tailor-made power suit. I'm sure he's the envy of his fellow brethren with a full head of hair and only a few gray streaks.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen, men of God. Today is a black day for us all. One of our generals of the Gospel has been sent home to be with the Lord, and it's not his death that troubles me; it's how he died. The devil is strong, but we as men of God are stronger.”

“Amen,” we say in unison.

Pastor Bryant has a voice that commands attention, and his vocabulary and diction are so precise that I hang onto every word.

If I was still preaching, I would want to be able to command a crowd like Bryant. I know it's shallow and self-conscious for me to say that, but I'm only human.

“The devil is trying to take us out, and the police do not have any suspects, but I know that God will help us to bring to justice the people responsible for this. For the family of Pastor Cole, let us pray.”

I bow my head and think about Adele's words regarding Pastor Cole. I'm not a prophet of doom, but to wake up and hear about a pastor being murdered is a sign of the end times in my opinion.

“Amen,” we all say upon completion of the prayer.

I look up to see the same short man that led me into the conference room is now whispering in Pastor Bryant's ear. One can only guess what the short man is telling Pastor Bryant because immediately, Pastor Bryant's eyes start scanning the room, and when his eyes lock onto mine, I know what the short man has been whispering to him. A smile creeps out the side of Pastor Bryant's face.

“Oh, Minister Dungy . . . A word in private, please,” Bryant says.

All the men turn around to look at me, and I have a look like I have just been called into the principal's office. I emerge from the group and follow Pastor Bryant out of the conference room down the hallway. Bryant doesn't break stride nor does he turn around to check and see if I am following him. He just keeps on walking until he arrives at a door at the end of the hallway. Bryant opens the door like he owns the place, and I close the door behind me. He goes into the minirefrigerator and pulls out a bottle of water.

“Do you believe in serendipity, Minister Dungy?”

“I believe in the scriptures when it says all things work together for the greater good.”

“The greater good,” Pastor Bryant says to himself. “What are the odds that you would happen to be on this island at the same time Pastor Cole is killed?”

“Am I a suspect in this case?” I ask, not sure of the intentions behind Bryant's line of questioning.

“Quite the opposite. I was thinking more of an asset. Maybe even a saint.”

I've been called many things; most of it I won't even bother to repeat, but a saint would undoubtedly be the first.

“Let's cut to the chase. You know who I am and what I do, so what's up?”

“What is your opinion of Pastor Cole?”

“Not a high one,” I say.

“Well, contrary to what you see on the news or hear whispered among certain circles, Pastor Cole was an honorable man.”

Pastor Bryant's statement is met with silence. I have no way of determining if Pastor Cole was honorable or not. It doesn't really matter to me anyway since he's dead. It's a harsh reality, but I'm not the kind of person who dislikes someone one minute, and then praise them when they die.

“I need your help in finding out who did this,” Pastor Bryant says.

It takes a minute for me to realize what Pastor Bryant is asking of me. He wants me to find out who killed Pastor Cole.

“You know they got these guys who run around here with a badge and a gun called cops. They're more qualified to help you in this endeavor—”

“—You know the police are not going to kick over any stones to find a slain pastor's killer. Pastor Cole is one of our own, and you may have forgotten that, but I need a soldier, a man of God with a unique skill set such as yours to bring the person responsible for this to justice.”

It hasn't even been a month since my ordeal with the husband stalker. The infamous serial killer avoided authorities for decades. He sought after the husbands of prominent women and brutally murdered them. With the help of my friend and bounty hunter, Spider, we were able to capture him. After my run-in with the husband stalker, I have had my share of chasing after another killer. That was not in my job description.

“I'm not sure what it is you need me to do,” I say.

Pastor Bryant goes into his pocket and pulls out a small pen and a tablet and starts to scribble on the paper. Judging by the way he's writing, I assume that he is writing down a figure.

“I just need you to knock on a few more doors and ask a few more questions. And if you do find out who is responsible for this, this will be your reward.”

Pastor Bryant folds the piece of paper and hands it to me. I open the piece of paper and at first I think that Pastor Bryant is being a little too cavalier with the zeros, but then I realize that he has over 30,000 members whose tithes and offerings allow him to be carefree with their money.

“This is a lot of money,” I say.

“Indeed, but you know I'm good for it,” Pastor Bryant says.

“That's not what I'm implying. Pastor Cole must've been in deep for someone to kill him, and by me taking on this assignment, that means I'm about to get in deep as well, so before you pay me a king's ransom, tell me something that those other guys in the room don't know.”