Hunting sommer, p.5
Hunting Sommer, page 5
Slowly driving to the car park exit, he glanced over my way. “Feels that way, doesn’t it?”
5
JUMPING AROUND LIKE A GUILTY SUSPECT
Whittaker called ahead and asked for Sergeant Williams of the firearms unit to meet us at Central Station, and after grabbing a cup of coffee on the way upstairs, we convened in my boss’s office.
“What can you tell us about a .300 Win Mag round?” the detective asked after we’d all sat down.
“That what you pulled from the Blue Water Tower vic?” Williams asked.
The man was stocky and muscular, with buzzed hair and the light brown skin tone of many Caymanians. He carried a soft local accent, and while he loved to give me a hard time, he was diligent and serious when it came to the job.
Whittaker nodded, and Williams let out a low whistle. “That’s not a round used for shooting iguanas, that’s for sure. We wouldn’t even use it at the gun range here. Win Mags are expensive and not needed unless you’re looking for stopping power at a distance.”
“We currently believe the shooter was around 340 feet away and firing up at a 20-degree angle,” Whittaker elaborated.
Williams considered the information for a few moments before commenting. “The angle would be trickier than the distance. From a quality rifle, you’re only talking about an inch or two of drop over that distance, but the elevation would be harder to compensate for. Without an opportunity to practise the shot, your shooter was lucky as hell, or a well-trained marksman.”
“What about the weapon?” Whittaker asked. “Could this be done with a good hunting rifle, or would it need to be military?”
Williams shrugged. “Either one. There are any number of weapons that take that round and could be used. It would require a quality sight, but again, they’re readily available.”
“But not here,” I added.
“The gun club and licensed firearms owners on the island might have both the gun and sight available,” Williams replied. “But we only have a couple of people capable of achieving that shot on their first try.”
“Could you?” I asked.
He grinned. “I’m pretty good, but I wasn’t including myself on that list. The elevation and wind speed can all be compensated for and applied to the sight settings, but it’s still not a guaranteed kill. I wouldn’t rate my chances in one shot.”
“Can you give us a list of the people who you think could make that shot?” Whittaker said. “And anyone who believes they could.”
“Sure,” Williams replied. “But it wasn’t one of them.”
“How can you be sure?” Whittaker countered.
“Because we had a committee meeting about range improvements yesterday, and all the names I’d give you were there. So was I.”
“You’re not a reliable witness,” I said, staring blankly at Williams.
He grinned. “Probably true most of the time, but no alcohol is involved in shooting club events, so I’m more reliable than usual.”
I grinned in return. “So, if we rule out any known marksmen on the island, we could look at immigration records for anyone coming in recently with military backgrounds.”
“That was my thought,” Whittaker agreed. “But unless they’re from a nation we require an entry visa for, we won’t have much more than their passport details.”
“And won’t include hunters, either,” Williams pointed out. “Top game hunters can out-shoot 90 percent of the military.”
Whittaker nodded his acknowledgement. “We have to start somewhere. We could cross-reference to folks with gun licences from the US states that share that information.”
“That’ll be almost everyone,” I responded. “America has more guns than people.”
“Fair point,” Whittaker agreed. “And it’ll take a while to get that info from the US. Let’s start with the higher probabilities. Check the past four weeks for anyone showing military experience on their visa application,” he continued, looking at me. “See if anyone on the list stands out.”
I doubted anyone guilty would be jumping around making themselves known, but maybe it was one of those weird English phrases. I got up and left. Without an office of my own, I had to grab an open computer downstairs in a common room any of us could use. Searching databases was about the worst job, apart from writing reports. Sometimes, it felt like we spent more time accounting for and justifying our actions than actually pursuing criminals.
Logging onto an available computer, I quickly traded office chairs as the one in the cubicle had an annoying squeak. Then I switched back as I realised someone else making an annoying noise would aggravate me more than doing it myself.
Autumn had the quietest months for airline passenger arrivals on the island, but that still meant over twenty thousand people. I checked private boat entries, which netted a far smaller list of less than a hundred. The immigration file contained all the details from the person’s passport, any necessary visa, depending on the nationality, and previous visits. For anyone with an entry visa, there was more information from their application, but the majority of nationalities didn’t require one.
It didn’t take long to reduce the airline list down to 114 people on visas, and the boat list down to six. The more I thought about it, unless the shooter was straight out of a James Bond movie, there was no chance in my mind that he’d arrived by plane. Of course, he could have if the weapon was brought in another way, but somehow it felt like a professional would keep his primary tool close at hand. The boat made more sense.
Of the six, only one listed a military career in the work history attached to the visa application he’d filled out online. Baran Demir, 38 years old, served twelve years in the Turkish Armed Forces. Üsteğmen in the Bordo Bereliler, which sent me to the internet in search of whatever that meant. Five minutes later, I logged out and hurried upstairs to Whittaker’s office.
“Have something?” he asked.
“A guy from Turkey arrived on a private yacht. He served in the Turkish equivalent of the British SAS or US Delta Force.”
Whittaker raised an eyebrow. “His own yacht?”
“Nei. He’s crew. It’s the fancy one moored off Rackam’s.”
“Dealer’s Choice,” Whittaker said. “It’s an Azimut Grande 26M, so I’m told. Owned by an American car dealer from Florida. He has a reputation for hosting high-stakes poker tournaments on the yacht, so he’s been mentioned in a few briefings since arriving Sunday evening.”
“Demir was the only crew who needed a visa,” I added. “The others are American, French, and Bahamian.”
Whittaker sat back in his chair and tapped his pen against his lips. “We should talk to this fellow, but let’s see if we can do that in front of the captain. I find it hard to believe that either the owner or the captain would be involved, or why they would sail here and draw all the attention? It’ll be harder for Demir to lie in front of his boss.”
“I’ll call Ben and have him take us to the yacht,” I said, speaking of Ben Crooks, head of the Joint Marine Unit.
But as I took my mobile out to make the call, it rang. I didn’t recognise the number. That wasn’t a surprise, but I had started saving more contacts so I’d know who was calling me.
“Detective Sommer,” I answered, still finding the title odd even from my own lips.
“It’s Naomi Hydes. From Larabee Bertram Real Estate. We met this morning.”
“Ja. I remember,” I replied, surprised she was calling.
“I was thinking more about what you said.”
“Which part?”
“Can we meet?” she replied, almost in a whisper. “I’d rather not do this over the phone.”
“You know where Central Station is?” I asked.
The line went quiet. My head had been focused on Baran Demir and Dealer’s Choice, so Naomi’s call had thrown me and I wasn’t thinking straight. From her nervous tone, she wanted to meet somewhere no one would have an opportunity to see us.
“Can you meet me in the Marriott car park?” I asked.
“Yes, but I don’t have long. I’ll be on my lunch break.”
I glanced up at Whittaker, but he was busy on his computer. I had to decide.
“I’ll be there in ten minutes,” I replied.
“Okay. What will you be driving?”
“An old blue Jeep.”
“Ten minutes,” she said and hung up.
Whittaker looked up. “You have to go?”
“Ja. That was Naomi, the secretary at Larabee’s office.”
Whittaker nodded and glanced at his watch. “I’ll call Ben. You see what Naomi has to say. That could be important. I’ll update you about going to the yacht. The timing might still work out.”
I hurried out of his office and down the stairs until a voice halted me halfway across the reception area.
“Sommer!” came Sergeant Hadley’s voice.
“Sir,” I said, spinning around.
“UK police are getting back to me by end of day.”
For a moment I’d forgotten what it was we’d asked him to do. Then I remembered Matthew Westbrook, Meredith’s ex-husband.
“Thank you,” I replied, thinking it probably was the end of the regular day over in the UK, but I didn’t say anything, and continued out the front doors.
By the time I’d driven the Jeep to the Marriott on West Bay Road, even the wind rushing over the open top and sides couldn’t keep my shirt from sticking to my back. I pulled in and parked on the east side, away from other cars and under the shade of a palm. A tall hedgerow hid me from the road.
A few minutes later, I watched Naomi walk into the car park. She soon saw the Jeep and, after looking around to make sure no one else was around, she joined me, climbing into the passenger seat.
“Hey,” I said, noting her nervously looking around.
“Who are you worried about?” I asked.
She shrugged her shoulders. “If Bertram found out, it would cause me problems, and I can’t afford to lose this job until I line up something else.”
“You’re leaving now Larabee’s gone?”
Naomi scoffed. “Hell yes. I’m not putting up with his shit.”
I wanted to know more about what ‘his shit’ might entail, but finding out why we were meeting in the first place was more important.
“What did you want to tell me?”
Naomi let out a long breath, seemingly pulling herself together before beginning. “They’d been fighting a lot lately. I don’t think the partnership was going to last.”
“Fighting about what?”
She shook her head. “Seemed like everything. I mean, I don’t think they were ever great friends, but during the Blue Water Tower build, things began to really change.”
“Why?” I asked, maybe too impatiently. I wanted to give Naomi the time to tell me what was on her mind, but I really needed to witness Baran Demir’s first reaction, too. Joining after the fact, once he’d had time to mentally adjust his defence, would be far less telling.
“Bertram was mad that Meredith had negotiated a penthouse in the Blue Water deal. He said she did it behind his back, but that wasn’t true. She brought up the idea early on, but he said he wasn’t interested. I guarantee he didn’t have the money. He spends what he makes before it’s even hit his account. Anyway, I don’t think she mentioned it again until the place was sold out and she was down for one of them.”
“What did Bertram do?”
“He threw a fit. I had to lock the front door to make sure no one came in for about an hour while he stormed around the office yelling and carrying on.”
“Why was he so pissed off? Because there was no commission on one of the more expensive units?” I asked.
“That’s what he said, but I know it was more than that. They had another project in the works, and they’d talked about taking two units in the new one, which was leverage to get the deal for the company. If they represented the project, the developer had two major sales baked in already.”
“So, by taking a condo at Blue Water, she backed out of the new project,” I replied, making sure I had the details straight.
“Exactly, but not only did she back out of offering to buy one, she turned the project down altogether.”
“Why would she do that?” I asked, shifting in the seat to get some air down my clammy back.
“It was still hush-hush, but Meredith was joining a petition group against building taller on the island. The developers on the new project were trying to persuade the government to allow fifteen storeys.”
My brow creased. Opposing that didn’t make sense for a real estate company. Building up simply meant more saleable units on the same footprint. I figured anyone in the real estate business wanted taller buildings.
“What’s the new project?” I asked.
“I don’t know the name, but it’s with APD,” she replied as if I should know the name.
“Who?”
“Argyle Premier Developments,” she replied. “You know, Don and Ron Argyle.”
I shrugged.
“They’re a big name in real estate on the island,” Naomi explained.
“Okay, so going against their deal would make Bertram angry,” I commented.
Naomi nodded. “Oh, yes.”
“Was he ever violent?”
“No, I think she’d have kicked his arse if he’d tried. He’s all shout, anyway. Meredith would take his temper tantrums up to a point, and then she’d bite back. He always stormed out of the office when that happened.”
“How were things between them on Tuesday?”
“They weren’t really talking. I did hear him snap at her about something at one point, but I couldn’t tell what.”
My phone buzzed, and I checked the text. It was Whittaker.
“Dealer’s Choice is at Lobster Pot for refuel. We’ll be there in 5.”
“I need to get back,” Naomi said, and climbed out. “I don’t know if Bertram is capable of having Meredith hurt, but I knew he’d tell you everything was fine between them. It wasn’t.”
She began walking away.
“Naomi,” I called to her, and she turned around. “What happens to the company now?”
“They had an agreement. I know, because I had to type up amendments to it a year ago. There were clauses allowing for them to buy each other out of the partnership if both consented, but also a clause whereby upon the death of either party, the deceased’s heirs couldn’t cash out of the partnership for at least five years.”
“So, Bertram essentially controls the company for the next five years?”
Naomi nodded, then hurried away.
I started the Jeep and pulled to the car park exit. There was no question we needed another conversation with Bertram, and it wouldn’t be as polite as our first visit. But before that, I wanted to look our Turkish elite soldier in the eye. Bertram may be behind Larabee’s murder, but one thing I felt certain about was that he didn’t pull the trigger. He didn’t have the balls for that.
6
MONKEY WRENCH REPORTS
The Lobster Pot restaurant had been in the old wooden building north of George Town since anyone could remember. At least, that’s what everyone told me. Next door was a public boat ramp and a long, narrow pier that stretched out into the ocean. With the fuel dock, which used to be in the harbour, gone since the Atlantis submarine tour service went out of business, the next best fuelling option on the west side was hiring the fuel truck to meet you at the public dock.
For a yacht the size of Dealer’s Choice, it required high tide to get the necessary draft, a long hose from the truck, and calm seas so the yacht didn’t pull the pier apart. As I pulled in next to Whittaker’s Range Rover in the car park across the road, it appeared all three had been well coordinated, as I could see a hose running down the wooden boards to the yacht.
The detective must have made better time than his five-minute estimate, as he was nowhere to be seen. I noticed a patrol car, which was parked more covertly in the back of the lot, so I presumed they were all aboard the yacht. Apart from the ugly fuel truck near the base of the pier, the view was stunning. Late-morning sun glinted on smooth turquoise water, and a multi-million-dollar yacht completed the idyllic island scene. Until a man leapt from the yacht to the pier and ran towards shore.
I’d seen the passport and visa pictures for Baran Demir, but at this distance I couldn’t be sure it was him… apart from the fact that we’d come here to talk to the bloke, and now someone was running away. Two RCIPS constables jumped onto the pier in pursuit, but they had a lot of ground to make up.
“Stop. Police!” I heard one of them yell. It sounded like Gabriel Foster.
I climbed out of the Jeep and jogged to the right, putting the Cayman Catboat building between me and the pier. Running across North Church Street, I made for an open roll-up door on the side of the Catboat building and hurriedly looked around. One of the beautifully crafted boats sat on stands, and underneath I spotted a length of wood that had probably been used as a chock or a wedge at some point. It was more unwieldy than I’d like, but I wasn’t spoiled for choice. I judged the big monkey wrench on the bench to be a little excessive.
Hearing the footfalls getting close, I stepped from the garage and swung, timing it perfectly. Caught completely by surprise, the man didn’t even have time to raise his arms in defence. The blow struck him square in the chest. With his forward progress brought to an abrupt stop, he clutched his chest and glared at me in rage. For a second, I thought he was about to lunge, so I wound up to swing again. Unfortunately, the first strike had done the trick, and he slowly dropped to his knees gasping, but I’d already committed. The second blow whipped his head backwards, and he fell to the ground like a sack of vegetables. Or potatoes? Are potatoes vegetables? Anyway, he was unconscious on the concrete with an ugly-looking graze on his forehead by the time the constables arrived.
