Death of a Siren Read online

  “Finger? Yes, finger. Keep at it.”

  “About Becker—”

  “Becker didn’t do it. I don’t want you to waste your time on him.”

  “What do you know about Thompson, the American with a big schooner?”

  “What about him?”

  “He admits he was at the castle and saw the baroness the day she was killed.”

  “Really? Good. That would be very tidy. There are many in Quito who would be very happy to see a Yanqui in prison for murder.” I wondered if he meant Thompson or me. “See if you can get anything definite. And remember, while the governor’s weakness was unfortunate, it changes nothing. You still work for me, not for the commandant, as you may have been led to believe. I’m the person who will decide who is sent to the mainland to stand trial for the murders.”

  “And when I finger somebody for you, you’ll let somebody fix my engine?”

  “I’ll have the navy look at it. I suspect you’ll have to order a new one from the mainland.”

  “I understand.”

  “Then also understand that I’ve known who you are since the day after you arrived. I radioed friends on the mainland who telegraphed other friends in New York. You shot and killed a gangster who was protected by an agreement between the Mob and certain police officers. Both of them would like to talk to you. If you return to the United States, you’re a dead man. If I tell them you’re here, you’re a dead man. Now we truly understand each other, no?”

  Before I could utter the most pitiful squawk, before my heart could start beating again, the sergeant had stood and walked off.

  18

  As López sauntered off into the crowd, the waiter immediately appeared with our meals. Within seconds, Rojas was back and seated.

  “How is Sergeant López, sir?”

  “Right up to his usual standards. You got back to the table very quickly.”

  “I’m very hungry, sir. Did you tell him we saw the Crazy German?”

  “No. When are you next supposed to report to him?”

  “There’s no schedule, sir. He comes to me when he wants to ask questions. Or he has me come to him.”

  “Well for God’s sake don’t lie to him.”

  “I’ll try to avoid him, sir.”

  “Good. Let’s enjoy our dinner while we can.”

  We were about halfway through our meal—Rojas had beef and I had roast chicken and tried not to think about the Crazy German’s stew—when I realized my assistant was looking over my shoulder. “Excuse me,” said a voice in very slow and careful English. I turned, but before I could reply, Rojas had launched into a brief discussion in Spanish.

  “My friend Gonzales here has been sent to deliver a radio message to you, sir.”

  The uniformed messenger looked to be just about the same age as Rojas. He also looked a little uncomfortable at his position, but not seriously so. “Please,” I said, holding out my hand.

  Gonzales smiled and handed me an envelope. I opened it and found the message, as advertised, but it was in Spanish. I handed it to Rojas. “It’s from Doña Ana de Guzmán, sir, and it says, ‘It took me a long time, and many arguments, but my father finally agreed to let you come visit us. Please come just as soon as you can.’”

  “What?” I mumbled. How could there have been an argument? Don Vicente had made it very clear that he wanted me to visit.

  “I think the doña likes you, sir,” said Rojas, trying to control a smile.

  This kid is on the border of getting out of control again, I thought.

  I looked at Gonzales and thought how well a little generosity and good cheer seemed to work in Las Encantadas. “Would your friend like a beer or something to eat?” What better way to spend López’s money? Or was I using the commandant’s money now?

  “I’m sure he would, sir, but he’s on duty and there are people here who might say something to our superiors, so he’ll just say thank you but no. Do you wish to reply to the message?”

  “Yes.”

  Rojas nodded, and Gonzales handed me a blank message form and a pencil, which I handed to Rojas. “Tell her ‘Excellent, I’ll try to come tomorrow.’”

  Rojas wrote and returned the message to Gonzales, who then disappeared into the crowd. “How did the commandant know we’re here?”

  “Sergeant López isn’t the only person who has friends all over the settlement, sir.”

  “The commandant will already know about the messages. When will you tell López?”

  “When he asks, sir, but I doubt I’ll see him again before we leave in the morning.”

  “What makes you think I plan to take you with me this time?”

  “I’ve tried to be very useful, sir.”

  “And you have been, but you’re also a spy. For two different people.”

  “Not a very good one, sir. I tell Sergeant López less than I tell the commandant, and there are many things I don’t tell him.”

  “You could get yourself shot.”

  “I doubt that, sir. Not shot. I’m only a common seaman.”

  “Did you understand what that message really meant?”

  “That she wants to see you, sir. I was a little confused since Don Vicente seemed to like you.”

  “I like to think that.”

  “Then she’s trying to tell you to hurry. Maybe she has something to show you.”

  “Or somebody.”

  “I would like to see Don Vicente’s plantation, sir. Everybody says he’s doing all sorts of wondrous things out there. I may learn something that will be of use to me after I leave the navy.”

  I realized then that Rojas, if he managed to survive his association with me, would grow up to be a politician. Or some other kind of con man.

  After we finished eating, I sent Rojas to inform the gunboat skipper that, unless the commandant ordered otherwise, we’d be getting under way at first light. Then I noticed what looked like López’s bike parked outside the entrance. I felt the engine. It was cool. I looked around and didn’t see him, so I ducked back into the restaurant and still couldn’t find him. He had to be there someplace, but there was no reason to look for him now. He’d already delivered his message for the night. On my way out again I stopped and looked at the motorcycle. It was a German DKW. I knew they made good machines. I’d considered buying one a few years ago but decided it wasn’t worth the cost since Alf was always willing to lend me his car.

  López had already ruined my night, and thinking about Alf ground it into my face. I decided not to return to Pegasus right away. Instead, I’d wander around the settlement a little, on my own. See what the place was like at night, without Rojas to interpret it for me.

  I headed down the path toward the plaza, surrounded by dense black shadows relieved here and there by the thick yellow light of kerosene lamps shining out of open doors and windows. I nodded and smiled at the carpenter as I passed, and he did the same. I said buenas noches to the four or five shadowy figures I met, and they replied. Most even smiled. When I reached the plaza I stopped and looked up at the stars. Wreck Bay really was one of those towns where they roll up the sidewalks at night. Or would if there were any sidewalks. I walked over to naval headquarters. The sentry, who was leaning tiredly against the gatepost, nodded as I walked in. The sailor at the reception desk glanced up, then went back to reading a paperback book. I returned to the plaza and studied the stars again.

  Becker, Thompson, and López. They were connected. I had to know more about all of them. I’d already started on the German and the American. Now I had to start on my boss, the man who held my life in his hands. Investigating your boss when you’re the ultimate outsider could be very dangerous. Fatal. But it had to be done and I might as well get started. I walked back through the shadows to the Miramar and arrived just in time to see López storming out of the entrance, shouting at García, the owner. I stopped in the shadows. I had no idea what they were arguing about, but I could see that both were angry. García returned to his restaurant,
and another shadow moved toward López, who was standing next to his motorcycle. The shadow moved into the light, and I saw that it was Esme, the young prostitute the sergeant had shooed away shortly after I first arrived at Wreck Bay. López shouted at her then held out his hand. Esme put something into it. Money, I assumed. Then she disappeared into the night. López jumped onto his bike, kick-started it, and growled down the sandy road.

  I returned to Pegasus and lay down in the cockpit, looking up at the stars. Light and dark, I thought. The brilliant, golden noonday sun; the sparkling Pacific; the sensual beauty of the highlands. Ana de Guzmán. And on the other hand: López, the governor, three murders, hatreds carried all the way from the Old World. I dragged myself below and spent a sleepless night trying to concentrate on the prospect of seeing Ana again and not thinking about the new danger I was putting myself into by nosing around López’s life.

  When my wind-up alarm clock clanged the next morning—I did finally fall asleep at some point—I woke up still thinking about Ana. I dressed quickly and, while the new day was little more than a golden glow along the eastern horizon, rowed in to the dock. I reached the gunboat in time to share some rice, beans, and fruit with the crew, and then we were underway. All the while, Ana was still on my mind, and there she remained until we passed Isla del Torre, about halfway to Santa Cruz. This bleak, lonely pile of igneous rock, composed almost entirely of a towering spire of jet-black volcanic stone, is a stunning sight, one brought to life by the massive flocks of black-and-orange frigate birds that nest on its dark cliffs, wheeling and screaming at the seagulls that try to share the air with them. As I watched the birds, a local fishing boat passed into view from behind the tower, sailing in the steady breeze toward Wreck Bay. I borrowed the skipper’s binoculars and thought I recognized Gregor. “Ask the skipper to go alongside that fishing boat,” I said to Rojas.

  It was Gregor. He was seated on a box with his arm lying across the tiller, wearing a floppy straw hat. He seemed half asleep. As the gunboat slowed alongside the fishing boat, I leaned over and shouted, “Gregor! That was a great party the other night.”

  “Wasn’t it?” he shouted back without moving, a big grin on his face. “Are you on your way to steal my wife or visit Ana?”

  “I thought I’d try both.”

  “You’re a braver man than I.”

  “Aren’t you far from home?”

  “The fish make me work. I have to chase them all over the ocean, wherever they decide to go.” He then laughed and waved; I waved back, and we each continued on to our destinations.

  We arrived at Santa Cruz early in the afternoon to find Ana, Don Vicente, and his wife standing on the long stone pier. Parked at the foot of the dock was Don Vicente’s large, shiny Ford convertible. His launch was moored to the far side. Our hosts were surrounded by two dozen of the island’s other inhabitants. Some, I learned later, were Don Vicente’s employees; others were settlers. Any visit, by anybody, was something of an event in the Galápagos.

  “Welcome, Fred, I’m so glad you came,” said Ana, practically gushing, as I stepped ashore. Her smile was brilliant and happy but far from serene. Buried somewhere within it was tension and even a little fear. It worried me, and I hoped she would reveal the cause before any of those fears came true.

  “Fred, my friend,” said Don Vicente, stepping forward and grabbing my hand before Ana could hug me or commit some other such impropriety in front of the crowd. “May I present my wife, Doña María,” he continued, guiding me toward a very attractive middle-aged woman who looked exactly as I imagined Ana would in another twenty years.

  “Welcome, Fred,” said Doña María in English. She spoke with a fascinating mixture of dignity coupled with an almost mischievous grin. What a family, I thought. Three coconspirators. “Vicente and Ana have said so many nice and interesting things about you.”

  I smiled and took her hand, wondering exactly what she meant—or maybe what she felt—about the “interesting things.”

  “And this is Seaman Rojas,” chimed in Ana, nodding toward my assistant.

  “Welcome, Seaman,” said Doña María, bestowing a smile on the young sailor. “I’ve also heard about your part in Fred’s adventures.”

  “Nothing embarrassing, I hope, Doña.”

  “Not to my mind.”

  “Come along,” said Don Vicente, striding through the casual, loosely packed crowd, chatting with many people as he progressed toward the convertible. When he reached the side of the car, Ana’s father held out his hand for my bag, which he tossed into the trunk. He then held the door for Ana and her mother to climb into the rear seat and for me to settle into the front. Rojas was delegated to the rumble seat between the rear seat and the trunk. “There’s so much I want to show you, Fred,” shouted my host gleefully as he toured down the gravel road that led from the quay into the scrub.

  For the most part, the twisty, at times dusty trip up from the hot coastal area into the more temperate zone was familiar. Thanks to my hosts, however, I did learn the names of dozens of trees and shrubs, some of which I’d already learned to hate. Once we reached the highlands I was thrust into a totally new world.

  We popped out of the forest onto a great, green plain, many times larger than that enjoyed by Olaf and Paquita Hanson. The air was cool, and the wind carried the smells of the forest and other growing things. At one end sat a large, two-story stone-and-stucco house with brilliant red terra-cotta roof tiles. At the other end, a dormant volcano, its peak partially shrouded in mist, towered over all. And in between were what must have been fifty acres, all under cultivation of some sort, along with another fifty of pastures, each fenced and containing small herds of different animals—cattle, sheep, horses, goats. For an almost middle-aged New York cop who’d spent ninety-nine percent of his life in a city where only asphalt and bricks ever seemed to take root, the sight was as overwhelming as it was foreign.

  Grinning from ear to ear with pride, Don Vicente roared up to the front steps of his house and braked. Roberto appeared on the veranda, walked down the steps, and opened my door. While I slithered out, followed by Ana and Doña María, Don Vicente let himself out and hurried around to the steps. “Come, Fred, you must see our view.”

  I followed him and gasped as I looked out over dozens of small fields each containing a different crop—pineapples, corn, beans, and I had no idea what else—all surrounded by the lush, green forest.

  “Now follow me,” he insisted. We walked around the veranda to a side of the house I’d not seen from the driveway. There was a small swimming pool surrounded by an inviting shaded patio. But that wasn’t the attraction. From where I stood I could see, in almost all directions, the Pacific in all its choppy, blue-and-white glory.

  “This is magnificent, sir,” I gasped. The house itself was impressive by any standards, except perhaps those of the Rockefellers, but it was the view that took my breath away.

  “Let me show you to your room, then we’ll eat. After lunch Ana can give you a tour while I take a brief rest. Do you ride?”

  “Horses?”

  “Yes.”

  “Not well.”

  “She’ll use the car, then.”

  Don Vicente led me up to my second-floor room, where my seabag had already been delivered. The room, like the rest of the house, had a light, open feel. The furniture looked expensive, but it lacked the dark, heavy feel of the baroness’s bedroom, and the walls were enlivened with art that was cheerful and bright, except for the brooding portraits in darkened and cracked oil of a few long-gone relatives. After my brief tour, we returned to a small alcove set in the veranda next to the pool. There, Ana and Doña María were already seated at a table, chatting comfortably. “What do you think of the view, Fred?” asked Ana.

  “Wonderful. And I really mean it.”

  “Now you see why I like it so much here,” she replied.

  Don Vicente and I sat, and the meal—lamb, rice, beans, and a salad—arrived almost immediately. “Have you li
ved in New York all your life?” asked Doña María.

  “Yes.”

  “And Ana tells us you’re an orphan,” she continued, as a yellow-and-red butterfly drifted past and landed lightly on the railing along one side of the patio.

  “Yes, most of my family died from influenza in 1918.”

  “I’m sorry. So many died everywhere. Including my brother, Rafael. You’re a policeman?”

  As she said it, the faintest hint of disapproval crept into Doña María’s voice. I had to keep reminding myself that I was surrounded by hundreds of years of wealth and power—wealth and power that would find a common policeman far from impressive. Even I was surprised by Ana’s fascination with me. “I used to be. Then I decided the world is bigger than the streets of Manhattan.”

  “María,” said Don Vicente, chuckling as he leaned toward his wife, “you’re being a little snobby. You enjoy socializing with the Herzogs, Gregor and Carla. And the Echeverrías. Whatever Fred may have been, and I’m sure he was not only an honest and skilled police officer but also one destined for advancement, he’s now an adventurer like the rest of us. And a very presentable young man. We’re not in Quito, where your friend Elvira Torres, or certain of our cousins, can huff and puff about my follies or the sort of people we associate with.”

  Doña María seemed to look inside herself a moment, then burst into a slightly rueful smile. “Pardon me, Fred,” she said, “Vicente is quite right. I’m being foolish. Old habits die hard. I lived for almost a year in New York and know perfectly well Quito isn’t the center of the universe. As for the Herzogs, they’re very entertaining, although a little roguish. Especially Gregor.”

  “You’re not having second thoughts about sending me to Barnard, are you?” asked Ana.

  “Of course not. We’re both very pleased with what you learned there. About biology and about life.”

  “Do you miss Quito when you’re here?” I asked, then worried that I’d spoken out of place.

  “A little, at times,” laughed Doña María in an almost convincing way. “We spend about six months here every year. Vicente often spends another one or two without me. If this were a normal country home, I might be bored, but I become very involved in some of Vicente’s experiments. That’s one of the main reasons I married him, because his tinkering seemed more interesting than the endless sessions of riding, shooting, playing cards, and drinking that the other young men devoted themselves to. I’m very proud of him, really. He’s managed to discover several techniques that other farmers seem to find very useful.”