The Washington Lawyer (24 page)

“No. It was a fine starry night, but …” He hesitated.

“Tell me, please.”

“Well, your sister had been drinking and smoking marijuana as well. I could see it in her eyes. I didn't need a blood test. Was she a starlet or a model?”

“She had been.”

“I thought so. What about you?”

Allison laughed. “She had all the looks in the family.”

“I would not say that.”

While he paused to eat, Allison thought about what he'd said. Surprisingly she was believing him. He had sounded sincere, and as he spoke, he was looking at her. Maybe she had been too hard on Stevens and those two young cops. Maybe she was one who was wrong.

“What do you do?” he asked.

“I teach archeology at Brown University in Providence.”

“What's your area?”

“The Bible and uncovering facts related to its authenticity. I was in Israel on a dig when your police called me.”

“Interesting. Tell me about it, your dig in Israel.”

With nothing left to ask about Vanessa, Allison went through the motions while she finished her salad. But her heart wasn't in it. She declined dessert and thanked the affable doctor for his time.

As she was rising to leave, he said, “I doubt there's anything more here for you to learn. You have a wonderful life ahead of you. I hope you'll soon go back and resume it.”

Driving to the Corinthian she stopped and pounded her fist on the steering wheel. She'd traveled more than a thousand miles for nothing.

A small boy, around six, darted into the road, chasing a ball. Allison slammed on the brakes. Behind her, a beige van from LIME, the local phone company, screeched to a halt to avoid rear-ending her. The ball had disappeared under her car. She got out to help the child retrieve it. “You a nice lady,” he called out.

Approaching the Corinthian, she asked herself whether she could have been wrong. It felt so damn peculiar, Vanessa coming alone. But then she thought about what Susan had said. Suppose Vanessa was planning to come with a man who she expected to marry, and at the last minute he cancelled. If she had the airline ticket, she might have gone alone to show him. And maybe she felt she had to get away.

Allison thought about the Chinese men who had been pursuing her and their desperate search for this mysterious CD. Perhaps Vanessa had been involved over her head in something serious with a Chinese group in Washington and that's why she had come to Anguilla—to escape from them, at least for a few days to regroup.

Definitely a possibility. Made sense.

Slowly, she trudged up the stairs to her room. In the corridor a maid, wide in the hips dressed in a black uniform, was mopping the wooden floor and blocking Allison's way. The disinfectant odor was strong.

Allison waited for the maid to tell her to pass.

“I aired out your room. It was musty.”

“I appreciate that, but I'm going home now.”

“I hope it wasn't too bad last night.”

“No, not too bad.” Allison sighed and took out the key.

“Always like that, musty at the beginning of the season. You're the first one since last June.”

Allison felt her key drop with a thud on the floor. “What'd you say?”

“You're the first person in this room six since June.”

“How do you know that?”

“My sister Rose and I do all the cleaning in this hotel. We know which rooms are taken.”

“You're sure?”

“About what?”

“That no one occupied this room last weekend.”

“What you mean? Of course, I'm sure.”

“Then which room did my sister have here last weekend?”

“Your sister?”

Allison took Vanessa's passport from her purse and showed the picture to the maid, who shook her head from side to side.

“Last weekend there were no guests in the hotel. They were hoping for reservations; and Rose and I were planning to work. But no one booked. On Thursday, Mr. Burt called and told us not to come in. The hotel would be empty over the weekend.”

“You're sure?”

The maid, apparently fed up, looked away and resumed her mopping.

Back in her room, Allison went out to the balcony. Staring at the beach and the sea beyond, she tried to sort out what she'd just heard. So then everyone she'd spoken to had been lying. All smoothly orchestrated, but one big lie.

She'd assumed that Vanessa had stayed here, but not alone. So even that was wrong. Then where did they stay?

Eager to confront John Burt, she pounded her fist into the palm of her hand and hurried toward the door. With her hand still on the knob, she caught herself. What could she hope to accomplish with Burt? He'd pressure the maid, who hadn't been clued in, and she'd change her story. Besides, it would be better not to tell Burt. As long as
they
didn't know that she knew, she could still move about freely and maybe track down the bastard. She'd have to make it look as if she'd accepted
their
story. Maybe she'd tell Burt she was staying on a few days to recover.

Then it hit her. Whenever she'd traveled with Vanessa, her sister always insisted on dining in the finest restaurants, a habit acquired in her modeling days.

Allison gathered up the guidebooks and the map and went down to the beach. On a chaise, on the deserted pure white sand, she identified the four top restaurants: CuisinArt Resort, Cap Juluca, Viceroy, and Hibernia. I'll wait until they open for dinner, she thought.

* * *

Better for John Burt not to know where she was going. So when he was on the phone, she slipped out a side door. On her way to the car, she noticed a familiar beige LIME van with two men inside who appeared to be sleeping.

CuisinArt reminded her of Beverly Hills transplanted to the Caribbean. She showed the maître d' Vanessa's picture and received only a blank stare. After repeating that scene at Cap Juluca and Viceroy, she felt so tense she had to stop and take deep breaths. Maybe this was not a great idea. But she would not give up, not yet.

Hibernia was about half an hour away, she estimated, on the eastern side of the island. Night had fallen and the wind was whipping up the trees. Without any warning, the skies opened and a torrential downpour pounded on the little car. It rained harder than any time she could ever remember. She slowed to a crawl, the road a watery blur.

Thinking it too dangerous to keep going, she pulled over to wait for a break in the rain. Glancing in the rearview mirror, she saw another set of headlights pull over behind her. After fifteen minutes, the rain still hadn't abated. The wind was now blowing hard enough to rock the car. She hoped to hell this wasn't the hurricane the taxi driver had been predicting. She turned on the radio for weather news. All she heard was crackling static.

Switching on the overhead light, she checked the map. The turn-off should be about half a mile ahead on the left. She decided to chance it. No telling how long the storm would last. Pulling out, she checked the mirror. The vehicle she'd seen behind her was moving, too. Hey, don't get paranoid, she told herself. Another driver could have reached the same decision she did.

Just ahead, she saw a sign with green letters against an orange background. “Hibernia.” An arrow pointed left. She exhaled a sigh of relief, her good feeling evaporating when the vehicle behind her turned left as well. They were following her! Shit!

Through the fast moving windshield wipers, she barely discerned a fallen tree in the road. At the last possible instant, she swerved around it. Clutching the wheel, her palms were moist, the defroster and A/C running full blast, her legs shaking. Perspiration dripped from her forehead and soaked her blouse.

At last, she saw it. There's the restaurant, she thought, with sudden relief. It was a small stone house, painted in pastel colors, as if it were in Provence. Allison pulled into the empty parking lot, now a muddy bog with the rain still coming down in sheets.

She parked adjacent to the building and dashed from the car. By the time she reached the door, her clothes were soaked. Immediately she pivoted, looking back toward the parking lot. The van from LIME was pulling in.

Will they stay in their vehicle, she wondered, at least until she spoke to whomever's inside. After that, God only knows what.

Allison rushed into the ladies room to dry her face and hair. Above the sink, she noticed photographs of a horse named Mary Pat in a winner's circle. Emerging, she smelled the aroma of roast duck. An attractive dark haired woman in her late thirties was waiting. “I'm Mary Pat,” the woman said in an Irish accent. “May I help you?”

Allison took out Vanessa's passport and showed her the picture. “I'm Allison Boyd. She's my twin sister, Vanessa. Have you ever seen her?”

Mary Pat studied the photo. “Yes, she was here last Saturday for dinner. Wearing a yellow print dress with blue butterflies. And thin straps.”

Vanessa had a dress like that. She'd bought it when they were in Italy last summer.

“Whom was she with?”

Mary Pat hesitated. “Will I create problems for myself? Is this a marital situation?”

“Please. My twin sister died the next day. When she was still here in Anguilla.”

“She died!” Mary Pat sounded incredulous. “You said she died?”

Allison nodded.

“What a pity. Oh, I'm sorry. Why didn't I hear about it? This is a small island.”

“That's what I need to know. Please, will you help me?”

Mary Pat appeared to be studying her. “At first, I couldn't believe she was your sister. You look so different. But now in the lines of the face I see the resemblance.”

“Please help me. Tell me everything you can about her.”

“She was here with a man. Just the two of them. They sat there.” She pointed to a table next to the wall. If the wind hadn't been blowing away from it, the table would have been drenched.

Finally she was cutting through all the bullshit.

“Who was he?”

“I don't know. I got a call from him that afternoon for a reservation. He said he was John Smith and he was calling from a boat. But I don't believe that was his name because when he got to the restaurant, he said the reservation was for Richard Smith.”

“What about a credit card receipt?”

Mary Pat shook her head. “He paid with cash. They seemed romantic together.”

Mary Pat paused.

“What else?”

“He had a wedding ring. She didn't. I notice that sort of thing.”

Allison took a small pad and pencil from her purse. “Can you describe him?”

Mary Pat closed her eyes. “An American. White. In his fifties. About six one. Maybe one hundred and eighty pounds. Short dark brown hair, graying on the sides. A pleasant round face. No mustache or beard. No eye glasses. Dressed smartly in a blue blazer and white slacks. He acted like he was powerful and important. He complimented the staff and me. Picked two very good wines. Both burgundies. A white and a red. Corton. He asked me to tell my husband, who's in the kitchen, how much they enjoyed the meal, particularly the duck from France.”

Allison carefully wrote everything down. “Did they drive or come by cab?”

“I watched them leave in a big car. An SUV.”

“Did you notice the license plate?”

Mary Pat shook her head.

Outside, it was still pouring. No one else had arrived. The lights flickered momentarily, but stayed on.

“Don't worry about the power going out in here. We have our own generator.”

Allison now thought about the van that had followed her. “Do you have any idea why a van from LIME is parked outside?”

Mary Pat looked into the parking lot. “All that's out there now is a little gray car, which I assume is yours. This time of year, rain like this can last for hours. You're welcome to stay here, inside with me. We live upstairs. My husband, my daughter, and I. I could lend you some dry clothes. You could even sleep here tonight.”

Her offer was enticing, but Allison had been busy formulating a plan. The van might be coming back. So before that happened, she would drive as fast as she could to police headquarters. She could get there, hopefully, before the van caught up. Then she would confront Stevens with what Mary Pat had said. Now he'd have to tell her the truth.

Mary Pat insisted that Allison change into dry clothes, going upstairs and returning with a pink cotton blouse and khaki slacks. “They'll be a little large for you, but if you tighten the belt, the trousers should stay up.” She handed Allison an umbrella. “Please drive carefully.”

Allison gunned the engine and shot out of the parking lot, hunching over the steering wheel, driving as fast as she could. Every few seconds she glanced back. Nobody there. So far, so good.

Five miles later, she spotted headlights, approaching from the rear. The van? She couldn't tell. God, what should she do? She'd stop, see if it passed. She pulled over. The headlights pulled over, right behind her. It was the van!

In the mirror, she saw a man getting out on the passenger side, walking toward her. She thought about flooring the accelerator and racing off, but they'd still come after her, and they knew the roads better. This crap has to end, she decided.

She got out of her car and moved toward him. He kept coming, the outline of his body glowing in the van's headlights. At maybe ten yards, she saw him reach into his pocket and pull out a knife.

He extended his right arm closing in and eying her.

She wanted to scream, to run, to flee, as she watched him raise his arm. Then she darted to one side and grabbed his arm. Taking advantage of his surprise, she swung him by the arm over her body, and thank God, heard the crunching sound of his arm breaking. He lay on the ground, writhing and screaming in pain, the knife next to him. She picked it up and charged the van.

Again, she counted on surprise. Ferociously, she slashed two tires on the right side. The driver, cursing through the open window, tried to drive right at her. But with two flat tires, his van leaned to one side and could barely clunk forward.