be dead.
“That’s what I tell police.”
“He was down there alone. Who the hell killed him?”
“The other man.”
“The police report said nothing about another man.”
“I tell them. They don’t want to hear. I know something wrong with that policeman. Something wrong with all of them here.”
Which was one reason why United Nations peacekeepers were all over the country. Corruption had long been a way of Haitian life.
“I don’t mean to kill you,” Dubois said. “But I want you to know truth. You said Scotty your relative. So you need to know. The other man kill Scotty.”
“Was he on this boat?”
Dubois shook his head. “He come in another, anchor over there.” He pointed east. “Not far away. Diver go down. I don’t think much. Lots of divers around here every day. Next thing I know he comes up and boat leaves. But Scotty never comes up. So I go down.”
“You get a look at the other guy?”
Dubois nodded. “Good one.”
Playing a hunch, he stepped over to his travel bag and found the copies of the two passports he’d obtained in Atlanta. He showed them to Dubois.
“That’s him,” Dubois said, pointing at Rocha.
“Sure?”
“Real sure.”
Murder changed everything.
“Scotty was good to me,” Dubois said. “I bring him here several times. He pay me good, always nice to me. He come to my house and eat with my wife and children. I like him.”
That had been Scott. A liar. A thief. But a friendly soul.
“What was Scott after?”
“He tell me he find
That shocked him.
He knew the tale.
On his first voyage Columbus anchored somewhere in these waters. But on Christmas Day, 1492, his flagship, the
And Scott had found it?
“He tell me it is there,” Dubois said. “In that rock. He dive several times. Always alone. Until last time.”
“You could have just told me this. You didn’t have to try to kill me.”
“You look like man who can handle things. Not like Scotty.”
He caught something in the man’s voice. “You don’t like what happened to him?”
Dubois shook his head. “He not deserve that. But there be nothing I can do. Police have the power here.”
He’d heard enough. “Take me back to shore.”
“You going after man in picture?”
“What do you think?”
“I think you need help. That man is here, in Cap-Haitien. I know where. I have car. You need to get around. I owe that man.” Dubois paused. “For Scotty.”
He found the Hotel Creole just off the Place d’Armes, near the Cathedral Notre-Dame, a striking Victorian building, its entrance separated from the street by a leafy courtyard, an iron gate manned by security. When he appeared, bag in hand, saying he was there to check in, he was welcomed inside. Dubois had driven him from the docks. This was the hotel the man at the airport had said Simon and Rocha were staying at, the same one noted on the envelope sent to Ginger by Scott, the same one Dubois had identified, too. He was still leery of his new ally, but he’d many times enlisted aid from locals. All part of the job. So were deceit and betrayal, so he stayed on guard. In his favor was the fact that Simon and Rocha had no idea he existed, and he planned to use that anonymity to his advantage.
The hotel’s lobby seemed straight out of the 18th century, with a vaulted ceiling and lots of stone and wood that opened to an inner courtyard. Behind the front desk he noticed numbered slots on a wall, one for each room. Not something one saw much anymore. So he decided to try an old trick. He approached and said he wanted to leave a message for Zachariah Simon. He pretended to scribble something on a pad, folded the page over several times, then handed it to the clerk, along with a $10 bill. The man smiled, thanked him, then turned and inserted the note in a slot marked 25.
“And I’d like a room.”
He tossed his bag on the bed.
His room was on the third floor, spacious, clean, the design minimalist with little furniture. Thankfully, the doors were also antiques, fitted with simple tumbler locks and no dead bolts. He left the room and descended to the second floor, finding the door marked 25.
He listened outside, heard nothing, then knocked.
Another try.
No answer.
He found the small diamond pick he kept in his wallet and tripped the tumblers in less than five seconds, a handy trick learned during his first few months on the job with the Justice Department.
The room inside was similar to his own. Two travel bags lay against one wall. He gave each a quick inspection and saw nothing that caught his attention. What did interest him were the papers on the desk. One was a report on Scott Brown, a background investigation that was surprisingly detailed. He scanned the paragraphs and learned things about his brother-in-law that he’d never known: where he’d been born and raised, the number of aliases he used, the multiple Social Security numbers associated with his several identities, and a bank account in the Cayman Islands with nearly $600,000 on deposit. From all he knew the Browns lived paycheck-to-paycheck — hers. Typical of Scott, though, to squirrel away money and never tell his wife. Most likely the stash was either seed money for the next con or living expenses between marriages.
One thing, though, became clear. The two men who occupied this room were intently interested in Scott.
That’s what the older man, Simon, had said in Atlanta.
Something else caught his eye.
A printed catalog for a local auction to be held at another hotel, La Villa St-Louis, tonight. He thumbed through. Mostly antiques. Some jewelry. Furniture. All from an estate being liquidated. Contrary to popular misconception, there was wealth in Haiti.
He noticed blue ink on one of the pages.
Numbers. 5,000. 7,000. 10,000.
Above the writing was an item for sale.
Small volume (215 ? 130mm), 62 leaves with hand printing in dark ink, another 12 blank. Fine original leather over wood binding. Significant soiling and browning, occasional spotting and staining. Dutch vellum, gilt edges, extremities rubbed. Provenance still in question, but verified to mid- to early-16th-century origin.
