“Is Chief Fielder aware of that?” Kate asked, patting her wheat loaf into a glass pan.
“She should if she’s been doing her job.”
“But you could tell her.” Kate removed her beet-stained canvas apron.
“You mean imply that Graham killed James?” I said.
“From what you’ve told me, sounds like Graham had years of pent-up resentment.”
“Maybe so, but my take on Fielder is that she wants to handle this case her way without my help.”
I heard footsteps in the hall leading to the kitchen and then Terry appeared in the entry. He stretched his arms over his head and said, “Hi, Abby.” I swear his fingers touched the ceiling.
“Hey, Terry,” I said. “You’re looking especially... sleepy.”
He walked up behind Kate and wrapped his long arms around her waist and kissed the top of her head. “I spent all last week and part of this one giving expert testimony in El Paso. I fell asleep about ten minutes after I got home this afternoon.”
“You probably had too many fajitas and enchiladas while you were there. Those foods are directly linked to siestas, you know.” I wanted to add,
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.
“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
