Attached to the trust was what Kendal and Francine termed the final list of beneficiaries, including the Bacon kids who would receive small amounts for basic living and remain the owners of the family home. They were actually going for something akin to a modern version of forty acres and a mule. Each of the forty-four descendants would receive an acre of land on any of the current sugar plantations owned by the Bacons in St. Croix, St. Kitts, or Puerto Rico, or they could sell the land back to the trust for the tidy sum of five-hundred thousand dollars. In addition, they were entitled to a full, four-year scholarship to any university in the world, and everyone, no matter what they chose to do with the land, also would receive five-hundred thousand in cash in two payments of two-hundred-fifty thousand over a two-year period.
An email from Francine’s estate attorney recommended that she keep the rest in trust to run some non-profit. That was a hell of an endowment: around one-hundred million dollars.
Part of this trust fund was clearly meant to punish or at least force her children to take responsibility for their own destinies and stop living off the “sugar tit” as she termed it. My own thoughts ventured the same way. As a man who never got much help from his family, I had trouble feeling sorry for them.
Harold needed to grow up. He spent his time smoking doobies, shooting targets with a stick, and surfing. All admirable pursuits after a full day’s work, not instead.
Hillary was a diva. She liked being treated like a lady, but she lacked any real class or substance. Had she watched a bunch of films from the 1920s and decided she was Veronica Lake? A femme fatale she might indeed be, for her mother.
Herbie was the most obvious choice for father-of-the-year. The guy liked to lord over his subjects, especially his son. Weak men made sport of berating their offspring if they were boys, and molesting them if they were girls. Sometimes, it was the other way around.
Junior genuinely loved his grandmother. He brought me into this mess. Elias, the boy whose father had been the victim in my last case, was the same age as Junior, or close enough. A small island. Maybe Elias knew Junior and could fill me in on Junior’s high school proclivities.
I texted him, offering lunch. He accepted.
FANS BLEW HOT AIR AROUND The University of the Virgin Islands cafeteria. A fly buzzed in my ear. I swatted at it to no avail. The lunch lady slopped some mashed potatoes next to some slices of turkey and watery peas. Elias selected an apple, a bottle of orange juice, and a slice of pie. We dined outside at a white plastic table as coeds meandered around and lounged on the grass in shaded spots. A few sun-bathed. Cell phones and books were scattered around like toys on Christmas morning.
Elias propped his backpack against his chair and waved to one smiling girl, who scurried by, likely late for class. Her tight top and tighter yoga pants stirred a longing I hadn’t had in some time.
“You dating?” I asked.
He made the you-cannot-be-serious face, dropping his chin into his slender chest. He’d filled out some since our last visit months ago, but still had the sinewy look of his drug-dealing father. He gave off the tone of a man very interested in walking the straight and narrow. Tightly cut hair and preppy clothes.
He dropped the apple into his backpack and dug into the pie. I shuffled my food around the plate, taking the occasional bite and watched the scene some more before trying again. I attempted to recall if I was as stoic with adults at that age, then realized I had been worse.
“How’s school?”
“Fine.”
“What about Roberts?”
Roberts was the lawyer Elias worked for, answering phones and scheduling clients between classes. The office wasn’t far from campus.
“Yeah, it’s fine, you know, it’s a job. Pays better than most. He gave me a guilt raise.”
“You pick a major?”
“Criminal justice with a concentration in, you ready for this?” He drummed his fingers on the table.
“What?”
“Cyber security.”
I nodded, a grin breaking across my face. “Nice. Why don’t you major in that? Talk about job cyber-security! Get it?”
I playfully punched him in the shoulder.
“Man, that is bad. Real bad. Besides, they don’t have a cyber-security major or minor. It’s called a concentration, which really amounts to, well, I’m not sure, but I can put it on a resume.”
The silence dropped on us again like an anvil. Another girl waved and I could see him getting antsy as he scarfed the last bite of pie, then chugged his juice.
He started to push up from his chair. “Well, it’s been real, amigo.”
“Wait, I gotta talk about something with you.”
He eased back into the chair.
The girl had stopped. Elias turned and made the thumb and pinky, I’ll-call-you sign. She shrugged and continued on her way, head held high like she was trying too hard to come off as confident while her heart wilted.
“Always something with you, huh Boise.”
“No. Not true, Elias. Last time ... ”
“Last time you were doing your duty to my dad. But, now that I’m okay, I don’t hear shit from you for weeks. It’s cool.”
He tried to act nonchalant, but I could sense a simmering cauldron under his coolness. I was pissed too, with myself. His father was dead. I was the closest thing he had.
“I’m ... I’m sorry, Elias. It’s not cool. Not at all. I was just, I don’t know, trying to give you space.”
“No, yeah. Space. Yup, I need space, you right.”
Running my fingers over my two-day stubble, I winced at him. “Let’s set a meet
