Bermuda Heat (20 page)

Better yet, the site listed Aidan’s home address and phone number. Chris jotted it down in his BlackBerry.

Before putting the laptop away he did one more search and came up with the official Bermuda police site. As he’d expected, it was essentially a puff piece. The tag said it all: “To ensure a safe, secure and peaceful Bermuda for all, because we care.”

Along with the official site were several less than official ones that Google also unearthed, including a few with very unflattering things to say about the local cops. Some wit had corrupted the LAPD logo on one site into Subvert and Betray, and had very little good to say. Botched narcotics investigations, brutality and
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sexual assault. What a mess. It sounded more like the LAPD of the Ramparts years than a police force on a tiny, bucolic island.

He wondered how much was trash talk to get attention and how much was based on facts.

He browsed through a few sites, knowing a lot of anti-cop rhetoric came from those who were on the wrong side of the law, so their truthfulness was suspect. Still, it was disquieting in the face of what they were doing to David.

He closed the laptop down, left the paper on the table inside and changed into his board shorts. He jogged down to Tobacco Bay beach park, and plunged into the deliciously warm water.

He swam the equivalent of a dozen laps, then draped himself on a beach blanket and tried to add some color to his skin. Time crawled towards the end of day while he waited for David to call.

Wednesday, 7:30pm Westgate Correctional Facility, Pender Road,
Ireland Island, Sandys Parish, Bermuda
David stepped into the nearly empty parking lot of the Westgate prison. He shaded his eyes against the glare of the setting sun. It danced off the rolling surf he could see through a stand of casuarinas and glittered off car hoods. They had dragged him all the way into Hamilton to have his bond hearing, and then insisted on sending him back to Westgate for release. He still fumed over the bond they had set. It was outrageous in light of what the same thing would cost back home, although he had to admit he probably wouldn’t have gotten bail at all in L.A. Not for first degree homicide. But two million dollars? It made Chris’s extravagant spending habits modest by comparison.

Aidan had told him Chris would be picking him up in a cab. He trudged toward Pender Road, one eye open for a taxi.

Thankfully, no one had alerted the media to his release. The last thing he needed was to have to run a gauntlet of reporters. Traffic was sparse, mostly moving east toward the Dockyards. Car lights began to come on as dusk settled over the verdant landscape.

Once on the road, he turned west, knowing Chris would come from that direction. His nerves were too frazzled to stand still and wait. He was eager to leave this experience as far behind as he could.

A late model Honda slowed as it approached him. The high beams flared, blinding him, and he thought he heard a voice shout, “There he is.”

It wasn’t Chris’s voice. The cabbie?

Then darkness cloaked him again when the high beams were suddenly extinguished. Behind him, he heard car doors open on loud, strident music, and slam shut to merciful silence. He blinked
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to clear his sight, but before he could regain his vision, something slammed into his head. He grunted and tried to step back but someone pinned his arms and a fist drove into his stomach. The air exploded from his lungs and he went to his knees. No one spoke again. They didn’t have to; he realized he recognized the voice all too well.

It was Jay, Joel’s son.

The next blow was a booted foot connecting with his kidneys.

Pain flared. This time the darkness that settled was deeper.

Wednesday, 7:50pm Westgate Correctional Facility, Pender Road,
Ireland Island, Sandys Parish, Bermuda
Chris could tell the cabbie hadn’t wanted to take him to the prison, but he couldn’t turn down the currency Chris flashed.

Chris sat back on the bench seat, staring straight ahead at the winding road, first flanked by rolling surf, then hemmed in on either side by heavy brush or low stone walls. They crossed the low Causeway, passed through Black Watch Pass, then skirted Hamilton and got out onto Middle Road. They passed the big pink hotel that Joel had said was the Southampton Princess, as night swallowed everything up. The hotel was a glowing pink giant squatting in the perfumed darkness.

Traffic built up as they crossed the bridge to Ireland Island where the prison was located, probably because it was also the way to the Dockyard. Chris hadn’t realized the prison was so close. He wondered if David might want to eat there, instead of going all the way back to their new place, then he rejected the idea. He wanted to be alone with David and not worry about revealing his feelings in a public place. Besides, he had some serious plans for David later tonight.

Immersed in his private fantasy, Chris nearly missed the cabbie’s curse and the sudden swerving of the van. The cabbie stood on the brakes and nearly sent Chris toppling off the seat.

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“Hey!”

The cabbie ignored him, and throwing open the door, jumped down onto the road. Confused, Chris watched him through the window and saw what looked like a bundle of clothes, lying half on, half off the south side of the road. He stared at the figure, thinking incongruously that it looked like an L.A. skid row wino lying on the trash strewn road. Wearing Dockers? Just like David’s—

His heart nearly stopped when he realized who it was. He scrambled out of the cab.

“David!” He pushed the cabbie aside and threw himself onto his knees, cradling David’s bloody head in his lap. David’s eyes fluttered open and he groaned. “Oh, Jesus, what happened?”

Chris asked.

The cabbie crouched down, then abruptly jumped to his feet when David groaned again. “I’m calling an ambulance,” he said and disappeared into the cab. Less than a minute later he was back. “It’s on its way. Do you know this man? What happened to him?”

“I don’t know. Why would anyone beat him up? We’re just a couple of tourists—”

“Why do any of these vultures attack?” The cabbie nodded shrewdly. “For your money.”

Chris searched David’s pockets, finding his wallet, which still contained forty US dollars and several colorful Bermudian bills.

Not robbery then. Something more sinister?

“Maybe we scared them away,” the cabbie offered, but Chris didn’t think so. What were the odds a run-of-the-mill mugger would stumble on David just at the moment he was released from prison? Hell of a coincidence.

It was nearly fifteen minutes before they heard approaching sirens. A green and white ambulance pulled up in front of the cab and two men in scrubs got out. They quickly checked David’s vitals and looked from the cabbie to Chris.

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“Who found him?”

“I was taking this young man to the prison to pick someone up,” the cabbie said, his voice thick with distaste. “I saw this man lying on the road.”

“We’re traveling together,” Chris said. “His name is David Eric Laine. We’re from Los Angeles.”

The EMTs seemed to agree with the cabbie that it was probably a mugging until Chris pointed out that David’s wallet was intact. The lead EMT shrugged.

“Tell it to the police,” he said. “We’ll transport him to the King Edward. Direct the police there.”

“King Edward?”

“King Edward Memorial Hospital. Finger Road, in Paget.”

The last thing Chris wanted was more contact with the local police, but he knew he had to call them. He needed to call Aidan too and inform him of the attack, not that he expected the lawyer to do anything, but it might shed some new light on what was going on with Joel’s murder. Chris didn’t believe for an instant that this was a coincidence.

The cabbie agreed to take Chris to the hospital. Chris pulled out his BlackBerry and dialed 9-1-1 first, explaining the situation to the responding operator, telling her the ambulance had taken David to the hospital. Then he called Aidan and left a voice mail.

He didn’t expect to hear from him until the next day.

The cabbie dropped him off at the hospital. He hurried up to the receptionist, a heavy white woman with coarse gray hair piled atop her head. She peered at him over the top of her bifocals.

“David Laine,” he said.

She looked the name up in her online records. “He’s being moved out of emergency to the ward.”

“Can I see him—”

“Are you family, sir?”

“What, yes—no, not blood family, but—”

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“I’m sorry, sir. Only family is allowed.”

“You don’t understand—” Only Chris did understand. In Bermuda he’d never be considered David’s family, no matter how many years they were a couple. He simply didn’t exist. “Can I talk to his doctor then?”

He thought she was going to refuse even that, but finally she picked up the phone and told whoever answered that she wanted to talk to Dr. Zelmer. After a short conversation she hung up and met Chris’s eyes. “The doctor will be out soon.”

Soon turned out to be forty-five minutes later. A balding, fifty-year-old man in surgical scrubs came through a door marked

‘No Admittance.’ Chris immediately stood up.

“Dr. Zelmer?”

In a thick Polish accent he said, “Yes, are you a friend of Mr.

Laine?”

A friend, yes. “How is he?”

“His injuries were moderate. His left kidney has suffered some mild bruising and he has some trauma to his face and head.

There are no signs of concussion, but as a precaution we will observe him for the next twelve hours.”

“When will I be able to see him?”

“He is being moved into a semi-private room as we speak.

But I’m afraid visiting hours ended at eight.”

Chris swore. Zelmer must have sympathized with him.

“Come with me. I think I can allow you a few minutes.”

“Thank you, Doctor.”

Zelmer led him onto the hospital ward. He left Chris in the room where an older man was asleep in the first bed. David was propped up in the second, sipping an orange juice. His face lit up when he saw Chris.

“You’re here fast,” he said.

Chris perched on the edge of the bed, resting against David’s legs. His voice was shaky when he said, “Hey, I found you. How
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else do you think you got here so quick? I was coming out to pick you up.”

“I wondered about that.”

“So, what happened? Did you see who attacked you?”

“It was Jay,” David said quietly.

“J-Jay? But— Did you tell the cops?”

David grimaced. “I did. I’m not sure they believed me. They said they’d, quote ‘look into it.’ I want you to call Aidan. He might be willing to take it more seriously. He may be able to force the police to act.”

“I’ve already left Aidan a message, but I’ll call him again.”

Chris glanced toward the open door when a nurse walked by. “I can’t stay long. The doctor said they wanted to keep you in for observation. They say anything to you?”

“I should be released early tomorrow. I can call a cab.”

“I can come get you.”

“Waste of cab money. I’ll be there as soon as I can. Just don’t forget to call the lawyer.”

Chris knew from his tone that David couldn’t be argued with.

And David would be home quicker if he didn’t have to wait for Chris to show up.

He risked a quick look toward the door and seeing no one he stooped down and kissed David. Then he stood and forced a smile.

“Okay, I gotta go. I’ll call Aidan right away. I don’t care if I do wake him up. You take care of yourself and get home as soon as you can.”

“I will.”

Chris grabbed a cab outside the hospital. Once in the cab, he looked up Aidan’s home number and punched it into his phone.

A woman answered.

“I need to speak to Aidan Pitt, please,” Chris said.

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Aidan came on less than a minute later. Chris could hear a TV’s muted voice in the background.

“Yes? Chris? What is it?”

Chris told him about the assault outside the prison. “David recognized Jay’s voice. The cops seem to think he’s making it up.”

“I will look into it tomorrow. Now go home, Chris. And go to bed. There’s nothing more you can do for David tonight.”

St. George’s harbor was empty of cruise ships. Lights abounded in King’s Square, and he could hear the sound of distant revelry from one of the numerous pubs. He leaped up the steps two at a time, where he took a quick shower then threw on a robe. In the kitchen he made himself a pastrami sandwich, which he ate outside on the veranda, along with a glass of wine.

The song of the tree frogs was loud enough to drown out traffic noises from the nearby Duke of York Road.

Around eleven he checked out the local news and caught the tail end of a report on Joel Cameron’s death. David was named as a suspect currently being held by police. There was a short, spastic video clip of David being led into the prison where Chris had found him after his attack. Well at least the part about him being held by the police was no longer true, but Chris didn’t kid himself that the threat was over. He couldn’t even begin to understand what Jay’s involvement meant.

He glanced at the bedside clock. It was only seven-fifty in L.A. Des would probably be at home. Chris broke down. He needed to talk to a friend.

Trevor answered. “Hey babe,” he said in his smoky voice that still sent shivers down Chris’s spine. “How’s Bermuda treating you?”

“Not good.” His voice broke and he gulped back a sob. Now that he was talking to a friend Chris started losing it.

“Whoa, hon, you want to talk to Des?”

“Yes, please.”

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When Des came on the line Chris broke down completely.

He lay back on the bed and hugged a pillow to his chest. Tears streaked his face, soaking into the cotton pillowcase.

“Oh my God, what is it, hon? Please, tell me. Didn’t you get the money? I told my accountant to process it immediately—”