Death of a Siren Page 8

  I sipped the beer and allowed myself to float up toward the scintillating mass of silver-blue light. Relaxing, I wondered idly how I was going to solve this mess and save my own hide. I tried to focus on the baroness’s mangled body, but the celestial spheres wouldn’t let me. All I could see was the face of Ana de Guzmán, winking at me. I found myself smiling foolishly. Was she pretty, I asked myself. Yes, but not really what you would call cute. She was compelling. I could think of no other word. I knew so little about her, yet I found myself aching for her. It was her spirit, I thought. Even the little I’d had the chance to experience. She seemed her own woman but not one totally focused on herself. She was a mix of the regal and the practical. I had no trouble imagining her crawling into a huge machine to oil the gears. At the same time, I could also imagine her in my arms, dancing.

  I snorted at my own foolishness and sat up. Why was I even thinking about her? She was a South American aristocrat, without doubt sickeningly wealthy, and I knew damn well that her type of people were even more stuck-up than the Astors or the Mellons. While she was at Barnard College I was slogging through the streets and alleys of Hell’s Kitchen. Erin was my kind of girl. Erin had spirit too, even if she didn’t have buckets of money. Spirit that Sergeant McGrath was undoubtedly beating out of her at this very minute. Erin was as lost to me now as if they were singing her requiem. I stood a moment, feeling deflated and very lonely. Was I betraying Erin as thoroughly as I had betrayed Alf by stealing his boat?

  Yes, I admitted to myself.

  I started to throw the empty beer bottle over the side, then remembered that bottles, like most manufactured goods, were very valuable in the islands and I’d promised to return the empties. I’d had a long day and found no answers. It was time for me to dive into my bunk for a well-earned rest. Before I’d even managed to position my pillow, however, I heard a boat come alongside and felt a bump. A moment later a dark shape appeared in the companionway, obliterating the blue-white beauty of the stars. “Fritz, welcome home. I hear you’ve been a very busy fellow. You must tell me all about it.”

  10

  I was bone tired, and thinking about Erin and Alf had depressed me If I’d been a free man I’d have told the sergeant to go to hell, but I wasn’t free, and my depression hadn’t quite reached the point of suicide, so all I said was “Yes, I’ve been damn busy, and so has our murderer.”

  “Tell me!” He sounded rather tired himself.

  “Somebody blew Ritter and Ernst to hell with a shotgun. Made a real mess of them. Four empty shells, so I assume between them they were shot four times. I couldn’t find Ritter’s gun, so maybe that was the murder weapon. The killer must have taken it with him.” López was sitting in the companionway, his feet on the stairs and his body continuing to block the starlight, so I was speaking into a near-absolute darkness. “I questioned half the people who live on Floreana—everybody I could find who I figured might know something. And was willing to talk to me. I didn’t see anything else worth noting at the murder scene except a lacquered box with a broken lock in the baroness’s bedroom.”

  “What was in it?”

  “Their passports and some sort of grant for the property.” I decided not to mention the photographs, which I had pocketed. “I left it there so you could look over the scene in case I missed anything.”

  “Are you suggesting that robbery may have been involved?”

  “That’s possible. The box had been forced open, and there was no money in it; all their animals have disappeared from the barn. But it doesn’t feel right. And Seaman Rojas assures me that the neighbors might very well kill the baroness and her subjects but not in order to rob them. He thinks the locals made off with the goods after they knew all three were dead.”

  “You think Rojas’s opinions are worth listening to?” There was a mixture of contempt and curiosity in the voice that came out of the dark.

  “He’s bright. He knows more about the Galápagos than I do. He’s proving useful.”

  “Very well. I’ll arrange for the disposal of the bodies. Who did you question?”

  “Hanson. Both Hansons. And Elías, the cook.”

  “All possible suspects, especially the Norwegians. The younger one is a religious fanatic. He might have decided he was doing God’s work. Or maybe it was that wife of his. She may have suspected something of her husband’s dalliance. And the other one, the fisherman, he can be violent. I don’t know about the cook, but I suppose it’s possible. He may have been angry with her. She had a way of upsetting people. You should question them all again.”

  “Piers Hanson said I should talk to the Herzog brothers, but they don’t live on Floreana.”

  “That means nothing. We’re an island people. We all have friends on many islands. And enemies. Question the Herzogs, especially Gregor.”

  “I’d also like to find Becker again and talk to him. I have a feeling, and I don’t know why, that he may be involved. I’m always suspicious of mystery men.”

  “Becker? Don’t worry about him. He was at Wreck Bay. The commandant has become obsessed with him. Your job is to find the murderer.”

  I knew I shouldn’t argue with López—he was reminding me more and more of Sergeant McGrath—so I didn’t. “Should I keep using the gunboat to get around? As you say, island life requires a lot of boat rides.”

  “Yes, unless I say otherwise. And keep Rojas with you. You’ll also need money. Here.”

  As he spoke I heard him moving down the ladder into the cabin. He stopped next to the bunk and handed me a large wad of paper sucres along with a handful of coins. “Is there anything else I should know?”

  “As soon as I find out, I’ll tell you.”

  “OK then, Fritz. Good night.” His tone was brusque, by no means warm or approving of my efforts.

  The boat rocked slightly, there was a muffled bump, and López was gone, but the sense of unease he caused me remained. The sergeant was cold—and not at all above blackmail and extortion—but I knew that most people considered those tactics just part of being a cop. He was, to all appearances, competent, dedicated, resourceful, energetic, and not too given to violence. At least I hadn’t seen any. I should have been reasonably comfortable working for him—even as a forced laborer—but I wasn’t. That was why I hadn’t mentioned my nagging desire to know where Ritter and Ernst had been when the baroness was killed. It’s an obvious question but easily overlooked when one assumes the two love slaves—if that’s what they really were—couldn’t possibly have killed her. And even more so when they themselves were killed the next night. If the question was obvious to me, then it must have been obvious to the sergeant. Yet he hadn’t asked it.

  I awoke the next day around seven, physically rested but mentally fuzzy. I rummaged around a few minutes in the galley and confirmed that there was no food aboard Pegasus. I considered heading for the mess at the naval headquarters but decided to be adventurous. After relieving myself and scrubbing my face and teeth, I turned toward the ladder up into the cockpit and paused next to the chart table. I studied the chart that was unrolled there and located Wreck Bay, on San Cristóbal, and Santa Cruz, Ana’s island. Fifty miles apart at most. Just a short commute by Galápagos standards. Ana and her family were going to have a visitor, I assured myself. Soon. Possibly when I visited the Herzogs.

  It was going to be another beautiful day. I rowed to the pier and tied the dinghy opposite the gunboat. The unsmiling gunboat skipper watched, his hand tapping the rail. I climbed up on the pier and started for the gunboat, wondering how I was going to communicate, when Rojas popped up out of a hatch. “Good morning, Seaman Rojas,” I greeted him, with an internal sigh of relief.

  “Good morning, sir.”

  “Tell the skipper that I’ll go eat now and return in an hour. We must get under way then.”

  Rojas repeated the message, and the petty officer nodded.

  “Have you had breakfast?” I asked my translator.

  “Yes, sir.”

&nbs
p; “What was it?”

  “Rice and beans, sir. And some fruit.”

  “Come join me. I want to talk to you.”

  “As you wish, sir. Where?”

  Where? I didn’t want to go back to the place López had taken me for a beer. It was too small and depressing. “Suggest something.”

  “How about the most lively place in town, although not in the morning? And they have good food, too.”

  “Lead the way.”

  The hour was early, but the settlement was fully awake and alive. On the beach two fishing boats were being launched while a party of children and women walked slowly along the tide line, looking for something among the half-dried seaweed. At the other end of the beach a marine iguana was doing the same. Smoke curled out of half a dozen chimney pipes, and the almost toothless carpenter was hard at work planing another plank. The air was filled with the smells and sounds of sizzling coconut oil, plantains, and goat, mixed with the sharp smell of the sea and the faint, heavy smell of humanity.

  “What do you want to eat, sir?” asked my guide as we walked past the hole-in-the-wall where I’d drunk with my boss.

  “Eggs, I guess. And some potatoes and meat.” I’d set out to be adventurous, but now I thought I might really want an honest-to-God American breakfast.

  “What kind of eggs, sir?”

  “What kind are there?”

  “Turtle eggs and two or three different kinds of bird eggs.”

  “Hens’ eggs?”

  “Yes, sir. The others taste like fish. Pork?”

  “Yes. And we can get potatoes, can’t we?”

  “Yes, sir. Follow me.”

  I followed Rojas through the narrow passages between the weather-stained buildings. Some were just homes, but many had shops or businesses on the first floor. Despite the rising sun, shadows remained in the corners of the passages, like a sea mist that hadn’t quite burned off.

  We emerged on the far side of the settlement, a side I hadn’t visited yet. Rojas led me into an open-air restaurant that looked out on the rocky shore. Over the gate a sign read RESTAURANTE MIRAMAR. Despite the sandy floor, I concluded this was one of the settlement’s tonier eating places—very possibly its only tony one. My guide led me to one of the two empty tables. I looked out at the shore and at the other customers seated at the dozen or so tables, while Rojas ordered breakfast for me. “Coffee, sir?”

  “Yes. Is there cows’ milk?”

  “Of course, sir. Fruit?”

  “What do you suggest?”

  “I like mango, sir.”

  “Then get me some mango,” I directed, not having the slightest idea what I was ordering. “And what do you want?”

  “Nothing, sir, thank you. I’ve eaten.”

  “You must have some coffee.”

  “That’s kind of you, sir.”

  “Did you ever meet the baroness or her two friends?” I asked while we waited for our food.

  “No, sir. I saw them once or twice here in Wreck Bay. Everybody has to come here from time to time to deal with the government.”

  “What did you hear about them?”

  “That they weren’t popular. That they were strange.”

  “What about those people we spoke to yesterday? The Hansons?”

  “Señora Hanson is very pretty. Her husband is very religious.”

  “And the other one, the fisherman?”

  “I don’t have an opinion, sir.”

  “What about Elías, the cook?”

  “I think he’ll have to find a new job.”

  I burst out laughing.

  “Sir?”

  “I apologize, Rojas.”

  “You must understand, sir, that I’m a navy sailor, not a Galapaguino. I’m from the mainland. I’ll serve here a few years and then go home. I don’t totally understand these people, especially the foreigners.”

  “Where did you learn to speak English?”

  “My father works for a British company, and they encourage their employees to learn English, sir.”

  “How did you end up in the navy?”

  “My father didn’t want me in the army. He was in the army and now has only one arm.”

  “Do you have a girlfriend back home?”

  “Not really, sir. There are many girls I like, but none is special.”

  “Here?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Seaman Rojas,” I continued, learning forward, “how did all of Wreck Bay learn I was a policeman?”

  Rojas stared at me a moment. “Santiago, sir, that old sailor, overheard you talking with Sergeant López. He speaks some English.”

  “And who do you work for?”

  “I’m assigned to help you.”

  “You work for me, and I work for Sergeant López, is that right?”

  The boy—for that was essentially what he was—started to squirm, and I decided that he was basically honest. We both knew that we both worked for López and that we both reported to López. I was reasonably certain Rojas’s translations had been accurate—otherwise I would have seen evidence of confusion—but I was now also certain he was required to report everything I saw, heard, and said to the sergeant. Which meant the only thing he wasn’t sharing with López was what I might be thinking. Unless he could read minds.

  “Rojas,” I said with a smile, “I think I now understand you, and I think you now understand me. We understand what we’re each expected to do by people more powerful than us. You’ve already helped me, and I think you’ll help me a lot more as time passes. I look forward to working with you.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  By now our food had arrived. I settled back and grabbed my fork as Rojas took a deep draft of coffee and seemed to relax slightly. I tried the yellow mango. Not bad, although it did have a slightly medicinal aftertaste. And it was a little stringy. The pork, eggs, and potatoes were just what I’d hoped for.

  I glanced around the restaurant again. Most of the other customers were Ecuadoreans, slightly better dressed than many I’d seen but still far from elegant. They’d studied us briefly as we walked in, then returned to whatever they were discussing. The three men at one table, however, kept looking at us, then talking intently among themselves, then looking again. I knew they weren’t locals, and I don’t like being stared at, so I glowered at them. One, a tall fellow dressed in worn jeans, an equally worn sport shirt, and gold wire-rimmed glasses, stood and walked over. “Name’s Bob,” he said, holding out his hand. “You’re the American López shanghaied into tracking down whoever killed the crazy German bitch.” It wasn’t a question, it was a statement.

  “Fred Freiman,” I replied, standing up and offering my hand. “You seem to know a lot about me, and I know nothing about you, except that you’re also American.”

  “Bob Thompson,” he said. “From San Diego. That schooner out there is mine.” He pointed out to the harbor at a large schooner that was almost totally hidden by one of the buildings that enclosed the eating area.

  Thompson, I thought. According to the cook, this must be the baroness’s American friend. “What are you doing in the Galápagos?”

  “Sightseeing. This is our third visit to Wreck Bay. We’ve visited half a dozen of the islands—amazing animal life. Check out the tortoises—they’re hundreds of years old. But you have to know where to find them.”

  Rojas had mentioned the huge tortoises the day before, when we were struggling through the brush on Floreana. “Who’s with you?”

  “Two other Americans—old friends—and four crew.”

  “Ever visit Floreana?”

  “Twice. Even visited the baroness. The late baroness.”

  “What do you know about her?”

  “That she was probably German and probably a baroness.” Thompson paused a second, the aggressive, cynical expression on his face relaxing into a more meditative one. “She was a very lonely woman. She acted tough, and she was, but I think she was also very vulnerable in a way. To be honest, once or twice I
thought she was a little bit insane. Sometimes it was as if she wasn’t there. As if her body was here but she was someplace else. And sometimes I could feel that she was scared, but I don’t know of what.”

  “Did you ask?”

  “Of course not! She would have thrown me out. She didn’t want any help.”

  “What do you know about her past?”

  “Nothing, to be honest.”

  “Do you know why she came to the Galápagos?”

  “I think she was looking for some sort of freedom. Freedom to do something or be something, but that’s really little more than a guess.”

  “What about her two friends?”

  “Nuts. What else can I say?” All suggestion of meditation vanished as his face hardened again.

  “When did you last see the baroness?”

  “A week or so ago.”

  Either Thompson or Elías was lying, and it seemed likely the American had the best reason to do so. I looked at my watch. “How much longer will you be here?”

  “At Wreck Bay?”

  “And in the islands.”

  “Wreck Bay another few days. The islands, maybe another week or two.”

  “What do you do for a living that you can own that big schooner and spend months sightseeing?”

  “Family money.”

  “I’ll be back tomorrow, and I’ll want to talk some more with you.”

  “If I’m still here we can have a beer.”

  “I hope you’ll be here.”

  “I’ll be here if it’s convenient. I’m not worried about López.” Thompson then spun on his heel and returned to his table.

  11

  Rojas and I made it back to the pier in just over the hour I’d promised the skipper, who was staring at us with a neutral, if long-suffering, expression. The instant I had both feet aboard the vessel, the lines were cast off. We slid out of the harbor into the deep blue waters of the cold Humboldt Current for the fifty-mile voyage to Navy Bay on Santa Cruz. Thanks to a minor problem with the engine, water in one of the fuel tanks, we didn’t arrive until midafternoon.