TWENTY-THREE
Logic is the art of going wrong with confidence.
Back on Grand Cayman Island, Ja Okinleye, taking no chances, ordered his entire force to be on the lookout for any suspicious-looking ships entering the ports around his three-island nation. In the easy rhythms of the Dutch- French language which Ja and his men often reverted back to when talking with one another, his officers crowded the airwaves with questions: “What is meant by suspicious- looking boat?”
“ How is a boat going to be looking like that? To look suspicious?”
“ What do you mean, Chief Inspector?”
“ I never heard of no seventy-foot boat being operated by one man.”
“ Fully automated ship?”
“ Wouldn’t someone in port authority know about such a ship?”
Ja angrily stared at the radio mouthpiece where he sat in his car, still at the airport in front of his cousin’s island helicopter business. “Do I have to think for all fifteen of you? Anyone new coming into port, particularly alone, a lone visitor. That is suspicious. What kind of man is he who comes to Cayman without a woman? A ship with a registry outside our waters. Use your heads! Use your eyes and ears! Damn your lazy asses.”
Ja Okinleye had never been involved in a case as large, and with such international roots, as this: a killer who was wanted not only in America but in Great Britain as well. Whenever he did have a bigger than usual case to coordinate, he found it best to be on hand, at the forefront, and so he operated now out of his limousine. This case could cement his career.
It had occurred to him that catching the now-infamous Night Crawler would mean a great deal to him politically, and he had for a while been giving some thought to running for higher office-to get away from being so directly involved in law enforcement. It would make Aliciana and her whole family happy. It would mean more time with his children, not to mention his own sanity and peace of mind. Over the years, he had managed to engender a lot of enemies who would be only too glad to see him placed in higher office, where he might do them less harm.
The island was teeming with underworld activity, much of it stemming from various gambling casinos and smuggling and money-laundering operations, especially in the drug trade. Cayman intermediaries helped mask the route of shipments pouring into the U.S. from such places as Colombia. Customs officials were notoriously easy to bribe, and replacing them again and again hadn’t changed the “island habit” or the morals of the men involved. In the midst of such expected third-world palm greasing, Ja was all too well aware of certain facts of island life. In order to coexist, law enforcement, as much as Ja personally hated the drug trade, pretty much looked the other way save for the occasional good-faith show of a raid now and then, typically as a result of an informant in the drug trade wishing to quell a move by newcomers to the business. It was all so sordid, and Ja was sick of police work, where the investigator’s hands were tied by the very people who charged him with doing his duty. It was, he assumed, the same in most third world countries and communist countries and cities across the world, including America.
Being a cop in Cuba must be the worst kind of hell, he imagined. Handcuffed by one’s own bureaucratic nightmare-like here, he thought. Here the balance wasn’t set so much by a corrupt government as by the powerful men of the island who ran everything, both legitimate and illegitimate and everything in between, including some of the giant casinos and tourist centers. Such powers expected Chief Ja to keep the peace for them and to know where certain lines were drawn, to know where his jurisdiction ended. Sometimes it was at a given door, sometimes at a given street, sometimes at a given level of intervention. It all depended upon the who- the players. He must be ever vigilant about whom he was dealing with and what their connections were and how much political clout they brandished.
Ja now opened another line to bark orders in his native tongue to other subordinates, telling them to be in place. “Nothing is to be left to chance,” he insisted. “Now be certain to cover every slip at every wharf. Coordinate with the port authorities at each port.” Even as he said it, he knew the meager resources of the PA here meant everyone working for it-maybe six men for the three islands-was so grossly underpaid as to make graft as common as tipping in a restaurant. He thought of bringing every damned one of these men in, grilling them until one of them gave him information on the killer’s first visit to the islands. They- one or more of them-had to have known something, seen something. If all else failed today, he would look into this.
Another of Ja’s men was now asking, “Are you certain, sir, you want to be including the hotels and restaurants?”
“ Especially the hotels and restaurants.”
“ But, sir,” replied the voice at the other end, “that will draw attention. What about the tourists?”
“ And the casinos?” asked another of his men.
“ To hell with the tourists and the casinos. I will worry about the tourists and the casinos.” And worry he would have to. After this was over, he’d deal with the Tourism Council and the local money-making interests as best he might. They were both like natural forces he had to always enter into any equation if he wished to survive, and he had already worked out a script they could both easily understand, one that meant more money for them as well as for many islanders. But for now, he hadn’t the time or the inclination to spend explaining his actions to anyone. “But we will get complaints,” the young officer at the other end of the line bemoaned. Ja realized that complaints translated into threats. “I will handle all complaints! Just distribute the sketch I forwarded you last night, and the information, and do as I say!” Ja slammed down the receiver of his car phone and looked out over the sea in the direction Jessica and the others had flown. He trusted they would be unable to pick out a single sailing vessel amid the morass of ships out there and heading this way. It seemed only too logical to him that the killer would camouflage himself amid the racers, if he was indeed as crafty and cunning as the U.S. papers had made him out to be, and if he was indeed actually on his way to the Caymans.
Ja momentarily thought of his children, what their adult lives would be like on the island. No more living off sunshine and air and sea. The island economy was in a horrid state of affairs. His children were likely to turn into chambermaids and waiters in the casinos. There was so little opportunity for a native-born child. What would be the fate of his children? What kind of changes were coming with the trade winds?
He locked up his vehicle now and joined his cousin Henri, who had fired up his second, more aged and battered, whirlybird. Shouting over the rotor blades, he said, “Let’s go, brother!”
“ What do you hope to gain, Ja?” asked his cousin.
Ja spoke in his native tongue, saying, “I want to be in a position to see what transpires, when it transpires and where it-”
“ Happens, yes, but if they are taking care of this business…” Henri fell quickly and easily into their home language as well, adding with a quick wave of his hand, as if disgusted by and dismissing his prominent cousin, “It has always been just the way with you, since the day of your birth, Ja.” He finished with a laugh as both men clambered aboard the triple-bladed, battered island helicopter, found their seat belts and put on their headphones, and readied for takeoff. “What do you mean, since my birthday?”
Henri was some eight years older than Ja. He now smiled and shook his head, and placing Ja Okinleye’s fist over the stick control of the chopper, he said, “You always must be with your hands here!” shouted Henri, grinning from ear to ear, his stained white teeth in need of capping. Henri’s meaning came clear to Ja.
“ I suppose you’re right, but sometimes it is a curse.”
“ How well the family knows this.”
They were about to lift off the tarmac when what appeared to be a madman ran out in front of them, waving his arms and hands, a brilliantly shiny gold badge held high over his head, proclaiming the American-looking, well- dressed man as some important official.
“ Damnit to hell!” cursed Ja. “Who is it?” asked his cousin. “More FBI, no doubt. Cut the engines.”
Ja popped the door and leaned out, taking the tall, good- looking American’s hand in his own and giving it a vigorous shake. The man introduced himself, but Ja was unable to catch the name beneath the rotor blades as they wound down. Ja caught only the badge and a quick glimpse at the ID, which told Ja only what he had suspected.
