Yellow Rose Mysteries 02 - A Wedding to Die For (10 page)

Kate put her hands over his and said, “Sure you won’t stay for dinner, Abby?”

I drained my wineglass. “No, thanks. If you visit Diva once a day while I’m gone, she’ll be fine. I’ll leave my itinerary on the kitchen table.”

Kate came over and hugged me. “Have a safe trip.”

As I left, Terry followed me out to my car. Before I got in, I said, “I tried to sneak you in a rump roast, but it wouldn’t fit in my handbag.”

He smiled. “Thanks for the thought. So you’re taking a trip?”

“Kingston, Jamaica,” I said.

“I went there once for a clinical psychology seminar. Got mugged right in front of the police station. Someone had told me that the tourists have to protect the cops from the criminals there and I knew it was no joke when I left. You be careful.”

“I promise, big brother.”

He bent and gave me a hug before I slid behind the wheel.

9

The next day I took a crowded flight on Air Jamaica that first stopped in Ocho Rios, a magnificent resort town I once visited with Kate and my father. It had been a high school graduation gift from him. We had climbed up the Dunn’s River Falls and spent an afternoon playing with stingrays on a white beach. But those sweet memories were obliterated once we landed in Kingston. The instant I walked into the chaotic Norman Manley Airport terminal, I wished Megan had been born somewhere else. I might need a shot or two of spiced rum just to survive the trek to the taxi stand.

This is tourist season,
I reasoned, rolling my bag toward the exit.
That’s why all these people are shuttling to the U.S. with too much luggage.
But the tall women with waists about the size of dimes dressed in brilliant swaths of island fabric or every imaginable shade of spandex did not appear North American. So maybe the Rasta and ebony-skinned natives screeched and argued and laughed all day no matter what the time of year. And all to a reggae beat like the music coming from a far corner of the terminal. I felt crazy by the time I climbed into a lime green and checkerboard taxi manned by a driver who introduced himself as Jug.

“Where you go, miss?” he asked, steering out of the cab line.

“The Plaza.” I tried not to look at the grimy seat beside me, knowing I was probably sitting on a cushion in similar condition.

“Ah, Plaza good choice, miss. Safe part of town.” Jug—whose real name according to the faded license on his window visor was Thomas Anderson—laid on his horn. Why he was honking, I had no idea. Surely not for the ancient, diesel-smoking pickup a good twenty feet ahead of us. All the driver had done was tap his brakes.

But that was only the beginning. I was about to experience the most noisy, bumpy, and fascinating taxi ride of my life. And did I mention long? It took nearly an hour to travel about five miles because of the goat herds wandering the streets and the packs of wild dogs racing helter-skelter like the rabies-infested monsters they probably were.

By the time I made it to my very nice hotel room, thank you God, I felt dirty and tired and culture shocked. I may have loved the beautiful Ocho Rios, but this was like meeting her unshaven, potbellied father who was wearing nothing but boxer shorts. I had Jug’s promise, however, that he would make my stay in Kingston as “trouble-free” as possible, or so he said. I hoped he was trustworthy, because he was picking me up at nine A.M. the next morning.

The hotel sat at the foot of the Blue Mountains, and from my seventh-story room, I had a spectacular view of a brilliant turquoise bay meeting a melon-colored horizon—all this provided free of charge by the setting sun. This vista was in such calming contrast to what I had just experienced on the streets of Kingston, I figured that’s how folks maintained their sanity here. A walk on the beach below me could cure anyone’s road rage in a minute.

After a fantastic room service meal of cod in white wine with onions and herbs, I used my computer/camera phone to connect to the Internet. I downloaded the address and a map for my trip to the Duchess of Kent Hospital from a Jamaican health ministry Web site and then printed them out with my handy little travel printer. Then I made the mistake of lying down for a nap. I must have fallen asleep the minute my head hit the pillow, and the nap turned into ten hours of hard sleep. I had time only to shower, hop into some linen drawstring pants and a knit peach tank top, and grab two bananas from the breakfast buffet before meeting Jug outside the hotel.

“You rest good, miss?” he asked after I climbed in the backseat.

“Too good. I need to go to the Duchess of Kent Hospital. Do you know where that is?”

“Sure, miss, but if you sick, you can go to better place. I got a doc see you for cheap. Maybe ten bucks U.S.” He had pulled away from the hotel and merged into traffic accompanied by a cacophony of blaring horns.

“I’m not sick,” I said. “I’m trying to find a birth record.”

“I know someone can make those, too. Paper like you need for them hard to come by, but this man—his name be Top Hat—he got a way to do anything, miss. Maybe cost you a hundred, U.S.”

“Thanks again, Jug, but I don’t need a new birth certificate. I need to find an old one.” I smiled at him in the rearview.

“Sure thing, miss.” His dark eyes glinted in the mirror with amusement. “Just remember everything in Jamaica cost you. You get what you want, but it cost you.”

With that, the cab hit the largest pothole in the universe and I was catapulted to the cab’s ceiling and hit my head. I slammed back into the seat where my tailbone made violent contact with the springs.

Jug seemed unperturbed by this bone-shaking experience, but I decided I might need the hospital for other things besides the birth record before this day was over.

An hour later—and I swear we traveled no more than two miles—Jug dropped me off in front of a dingy, stucco, two-story building that had to be a hundred years old. He gave me his card so I could call him when I’d finished my business and warned me that if I couldn’t reach him, to take only a cab with a red license plate. These were apparently the “good guy taxis” registered in Jamaica.

I stood on the sidewalk, looking up at the weathered sign over the double wood front doors. This was indeed the Duchess of Kent Hospital, but the building looked like a neglected mission. Inside, however, I found no religiously garbed inhabitants but rather white coats, white nurse uniforms, white walls, and black people. And a volunteer wearing a striped apron who asked me how she could help. I produced a business card and handed it to her, but not one from Yellow Rose Investigations. This was one of my old CEO business cards from CompuCan. I no longer ran the company, but Kate and I were still majority owners, so the cards told a partial truth. I had decided to use this approach after my conversations with the Registrar General’s Office. I was certain I would get absolutely nowhere with the government in Jamaica, but after visiting Sister Nell, I had learned all good things of value—like birth records—lie in computer databases. If this hospital had someone like her in charge of their records, I preferred to approach him or her directly for what I needed.

The lady with the striped apron had to make three phone calls to find out that they had a computer liaison with an office on the upper floor in what looked like a converted surgical suite—except the only surgery being done was on hard drives. The floor was littered with the guts of ancient PCs, though a few models were up and looked ready to go. Those sat side by side on a long brown folding table against a far wall. A man with messy bleached-blond hair and wearing a tropical shirt had his back to me. He was hunched over a keyboard, and though he switched off the monitor when I cleared my throat, I saw he’d been playing a video game.

“Hi,” I said when he stood and faced me. “Are you the computer liaison?”

“Yeah. Dave. But if you’re from Civil Registration, I’m still moving data. I told the last guy this is gonna take like a trillion years.” Dave looked to be in his mid-twenties and his Valley-speak and freckled face marked him as American through and through.

“I’m not from Civil Registration.” I walked across the white tile floor and handed him my CompuCan card.

He studied it so long you’d have thought he was reading a calculus textbook. “So? What’s this mean?”

“Actually, you’re not going to believe this, but I’m from a major computer software developer via my company CompuCan and I’m here to help.”

As the unmistakable odor of marijuana permeated the space between us, his golden eyebrows pulled together. Apparently compound sentences triggered confusion in his pot-addled brain.

“Um, Dave? Could we sit and talk?” All monosyllabic words. Maybe they would do the trick.

“Sure. Whatever.” He sat back in his computer chair, making no effort to find me so much as a stool.

I spied a straight-back chair resting against a wall behind a pile of ravaged PC towers, brought it over, and sat next to him. I then had to scoot farther away, fearing I might get high off the dope fumes emanating from his clothes and hair.

“As you probably know, the big cheese at the company, a man whose name I am not allowed to mention, has an estate in Grand Cayman,” I said.

“You mean Bill?” he said.

“Yes.”
If that name works for you
,
all the better.
“And after living near other less-affluent West Indies islands, he has decided to help the health care sector in these countries with a generous endowment. My company will be providing the technical support to see that his money is spent wisely, and I have arrived to assess various hospital computer needs here in Jamaica.” Nice chunk of bullshit, even if I did say so myself.

“Cool,” Dave said. “But maybe you should talk to an administrator.”

“Do you think I would be here if that hadn’t already happened?”

“Uh, I guess not.” His freckled cheeks flushed.

Oh how I love the slow ones. “You must be from the states, correct?”

“Florida.”

“And I see you’re working under less than modern conditions.”

“No shit,” said Dave.

“What kind of network does this facility utilize?” I asked.

“Network? Are you kidding?”

“Okay, no network,” I said. “What about the operating system? Unix?”

“Try Windows 2000,” he answered, making a sweeping gesture around the room. “These machines are all donated, and most of them can’t even support Windows Net Server much less the next generation.”

I took out my computer phone, knowing that if this guy had any real geek in him, he’d start drooling the minute he saw it. “Mind if I check out the software? Make a few notes?”

He stared with undisguised lust at my phone. “Yeah. Guess that would be okay.”

I held out the phone. “Do you have one of these?” “No way. But I read about this model. You gotta charge them every day, right?”

“This one’s ready to go. Want to play?”

“Wow. You mean it?”

I gave him the phone. “Meanwhile, I’ll see what we need to do to improve the technology in this hospital.”

“Hey. Go for it,” Dave said. Unlike with Sister Nell and the U.S. government, privacy and confidentiality apparently meant nothing in this room.

I rose and went to the last computer on the table, booted up, and began exploring files on the hard drive. It was full of spreadsheets—hospital financial records dating back five years. If they had only five years worth in their databases, I was in trouble. But noting the PC was low on memory, I figured maybe this machine couldn’t handle more than that. I moved to the next computer, and that’s when I noticed a piece of masking tape stuck on the previous machine’s tower. The word “billing” was written in black marker. If all the computers were similarly labeled my job just got a little easier.

The next computer tower was under the table and I bent and looked for its identifier. This one was marked “outpatient.”

I glanced over at Dave. He was leaning back in his chair, eyes fixed on my phone, his hand moving the wand over the tiny keyboard. I swear he might have a techie orgasm any second.

I skipped the outpatient computer and moved on to the next one, which actually had a flat-screen monitor. When I looked below to check for a label, I noticed a landline Internet connection. Obviously this was the most modern computer in the room. And the label made me as eager as a dry steer scenting fresh water. It read
Births and Deaths
. Oh yes.

“Uh, Dave,” I said. “I see you have Internet access here. What’s that for?”

“I’m uploading a bunch of crap to Civil Registration. So far, I’ve reached 1995.” He punched something on my phone and grinned, his eyes wide. “This is so awesome.”

“And why are you sending these files to the government?”

He kept playing. “You know that bad-ass hurricane they had here about twenty years ago?”

“Gilbert?” Had to be. Everyone on the Gulf Coast knew about Gilbert and how lucky we’d been to be spared. The storm’s hundred and sixty mile an hour winds had practically flattened Jamaica.

“Yeah. Gil Baby. Lots of records were lost. And more were lost when Ivan hit last year. Births, deaths, shit like that. Government’s overhauling their vital stats and they want all the hospitals to send whatever they saved as far back as possible.”

“I see.”

“Took the guy who worked here before me about four years to enter stuff from old, practically unreadable medical charts. Some he could scan in, but most of them were in such bad shape he had to enter all the data manually.”

“And now your job is to send the records to a central location?”

“Yeah, but if I had one of these babies,” he said, caressing my phone, “shit, I’d be done in a month.” He reluctantly held it out to me.

“Did you try getting on the Net?” I made no move to take the phone back.

“No. I only checked out the basics. Can’t believe you have so much memory on this little thing.”

I took the phone, entered my password, logged on, and handed it back. “It’s satellite enabled. Surf away, dude.”

He smiled and eagerly began to tap the keys again.