Chapter Text
Honoré, Saint Marie, Caribbean
Life was not easy for Detective Inspector Neville Parker. In the prime of his career, young, fit and (to the casual observer) healthy, many would say he had little to complain about. But a long list of allergies and sensitivities made navigating his way through normal life an everyday challenge. He was hyper-aware of his body: every itch, every twinge, because each might signal greater suffering to come.
On the other hand, managing his own ailments meant he was very good at finding ways to help others, which was a handy thing at the moment. He opened the refrigerator and extracted the damp towel, which was now quite cold, and carried it across to the woman who sat in the middle of the room. Silently, he held it out to her.
She pulled the cloth she was holding away from her eye. There was blood on the cloth, but not much. Her skin was so dark the bruises were barely visible but Neville could see the swelling and the cut clearly enough. They were injuries he had seen all too frequently in his career, but it never failed to anger him. He did his best to shove that anger down as he met her eyes; the woman needed empathy, not another angry man to deal with.
She exchanged her cloth for the one he offered and he saw a faint trace of a grateful smile as she felt the cloth’s coolness and pressed it against her injury.
“Did you recognise her, Grace?” Detective Sergeant Florence Cassell asked gently, her pen poised over a notebook.
“No,” Grace answered. “I never saw her before.”
“Do you think you would recognise her again?”
A hesitation. “I’m not sure. She was young…too young. Maybe seventeen. Long braids. Red bikini. Does it matter? She didn’t hit me.”
“It’s always helpful to have witnesses,” Florence answered.
Grace drew back a little. “Do you not believe me?”
Neville moved a chair closer and sat down. “We believe you, Grace.” He could have explained further, about the rules of evidence and suchlike but none of that mattered in the moment. He nodded to Florence.
“What happened then?” she asked.
“Leon told her to go below. Practically shoved her toward the cabin. I said something…How dare you? And he came toward me. I…I don’t really remember the rest. Just that he hit me.”
“Do you remember what he used?” Florence touched her own face, indicating where Grace was bruised. “It doesn’t look like bare hands.”
“He picked something up…maybe a bottle? I’m not sure.”
Florence made a note.
Neville beckoned to JP. “Office Hooper will take you to the hospital.”
Grace shook her head. “That’s not…”
“You’re having trouble remembering, so you need to be checked out,” Neville insisted. He didn’t mention the need to document her injuries. He trusted JP would ensure that was done. “And he’ll stay with you to make sure you’re safe.”
JP nodded, offering his arm to Grace. “We’ll have you fixed up in no time.”
“You’re very kind.” Grace allowed JP to help her up and Neville saw she leaned heavily on his arm, evidently still shaky on her feet. Understandable.
As soon as they were out of the building, he turned to Florence. “You recognised his name.”
She nodded. “Leon Barbier. He’s a smuggler, but we’ve never been able to prove it.”
“He has a record?”
“Not exactly. He’s been linked with several crimes but never been charged. I’ll get you the files.”
“Later. First let’s make the arrest, and investigate the boat as a crime scene. We can certainly prove assault, and Grace will be safer when he’s in a cell.”
Florence closed her notebook with a snap. Her eyes held a steely determination. “Yes, let’s do that.”
*
Cascade, WA, USA
“…eight kilos.”
“Gotcha,” Jim murmured, just loud enough for Blair to hear. He smiled.
Blair spoke quietly, “Dial it back, man. You need to be ready when he comes out.”
Jim closed his eyes, visualising the dials as Blair had taught him. Each imagined dial connected to one of his senses. Slowly, he dialled his hearing down, and his sight up. He looked toward the door. “Seatbelt tight, Chief?” he prompted.
“I’m good,” Blair answered.
As the door opened and Hayward came out, a large gym bag slung over one shoulder. Jim reached for the truck’s door. “Call for backup. If he drops the bag, I chase, you grab the evidence.”
He didn’t wait for Blair’s answer. He flung the door open and leapt out. “Cascade PD!”
Hayward took off. He leapt across the nearest car with the grace of a parkour runner and tossed the bag into the car in front of it. He hadn’t arrived by car, but he had this one started before Jim could reach him.
He drew his gun. “Freeze, Hayward!”
Jim knew Hayward wouldn’t stop, but he had to try. Hayward ignored him, revving the engine and pulling away. Jim holstered the gun and returned to the truck. He lost precious seconds getting started, but soon he was in pursuit. His sentinel vision engaged and he zeroed in on the license plate as he drove. He punched the radio. “Ellison one-zebra-one to dispatch.”
“Dispatch.”
“I’m in pursuit of a suspect southbound on Tower. Requesting backup. Suspect is driving a grey Ford sedan.” He rattled off the license number.
“Units on their way, Detective. ETA three minutes.”
He put on speed and handed the radio to Blair. “Chief, stay on the radio and tell them when we change direction.” As he spoke, Hayward’s car squealed around a corner. Jim heard sirens approaching.
*
Hayward walked into the cell, turned around and stared at him, unblinking. “You’re making a mistake, Ellison.”
“I think you’ll find your mistake was the eight kilos of cocaine,” Jim answered. “I’ll see you in court.”
The cell door closed and Jim turned to go. He yawned as he approached the sergeant on duty. The adrenaline of the chase was fading, leaving him exhausted.
“Long day, Detective?”
Jim stifled another yawn. “And it’s not over yet. Let me know if he asks for his phone call.”
“You want me to make him wait?”
“No. He’s got a right to a call. I just want to know when he makes it.”
The sergeant made a note in a wire-bound notebook. “You got it.”
“Thanks.” Jim headed on up to the Major Crimes bullpen. He said hi to Joel, who was also working late, then settled himself at his computer. He had to write up his account of the stakeout and arrest before he and Blair could go home.
Where was Blair?
While he waited for the computer to boot up, Jim concentrated, extending his senses through the building, seeking Blair. He found him in the break room, telling Connor about the arrest. Jim picked up his phone and typed out a quick text message. He heard Blair’s phone ping and got to work on his arrest report.
In the break room, Blair sighed. “Jim wants coffee,” he told Connor. “I’d better go.”
Jim had typed four sentences when Simon’s office door opened.
“Ellison!” Simon called. “Where’s Sandburg?”
“In the break room with Connor.”
“Go get him. I need to talk to both of you before you leave.”
“Can it wait, Simon? I just started this report.”
“Go get him, Ellison.”
Okay then. Jim could hear Blair coming so he saved his file, locked the computer and was ready as the bullpen door swung open. He swiped the coffee cup from Blair’s hand.
“Simon wants us.” He sipped the coffee and steered his partner toward the captain’s office.
Simon poured coffee from the percolator behind his desk. “Do you both have your passports up to date?” He sat down at his desk.
Jim raised his eyebrows. “Mine expires next year. Chief?”
“Three years, I think. It’s current. Why?”
“Have a seat, both of you. Do you remember Leon Barbier?”
“Sure,” Jim nodded. “He was the mastermind behind the bank robberies two years ago. He left the country before we could make the arrest.”
“And now he’s been arrested abroad. They did a routine background check and our warrant came up. The DA put in an extradition request, which has been provisionally approved. But someone has to fly out there to complete the paperwork and escort him back to the USA.”
“That’s a job for a Federal Marshall,” Jim pointed out.
“Usually, yes,” Simon agreed, “but this is an unusual case, and the island is in an odd jurisdiction, both British and French.”
“We’re going to Europe?” Blair asked.
Simon turned his screen so they could see the map. “No. It’s a little Caribbean island called Saint Marie.” The map showed a horseshoe shaped island, a long way from any other land. “Will you do it, Jim?”
Jim looked at Blair.
Blair grinned. “A trip to the Caribbean with all reasonable expenses paid? Hell, yes.”
“Air fare and hotel is covered,” Simon put in. “Everything else is on reimbursement. I’ll expect receipts.”
“That’s fair,” Jim agreed. “When do we leave?”
*
San Juan, Puerto Rico
While Jim enquired about their connecting flight, Blair took advantage of the airport’s WiFi to check out their destination. Saint Marie was pronounced the French way, San Maree, and French was an official language of the island. Jim and Blair had flown from Cascade to Miami and from there to San Juan. The next plane would take them to Saint Marie. It had been a long trip and he was tired, but it was harder on Jim. When Jim got overtired his senses could go haywire, and even with air conditioning it was hot out here.
The airport WiFi gave him access to local news stations, so he searched the name of the guy they were supposed to meet.
Jim threw himself onto the bench beside Blair. “It’s going to be ninety minutes at least. You want to get a beer while we wait?”
“Okay,” Blair agreed easily. He offered his phone to Jim. “Take a look at this.”
Jim took the phone and played the video clip. It was a televised interview with a police detective concerning an ongoing murder investigation. It didn’t go well for the detective.
The clip came to an end and Jim replayed it. “This is the cop we’re meeting?” he asked as it played again.
“Detective Inspector Parker, yeah,” Blair agreed. When Jim replayed the clip a third time he frowned. “You trying to memorise it?”
“No, looking for tells. The victim worked at the TV station which means the interviewer knew her. He’s either guilty or he knows who is.”
Blair raised his eyebrows. “What makes you think…?”
“Chief, he’s practically announcing it. There’s no other reason to go after the detective like this. If you care about finding the killer you want the detective on your side. He’s deliberately making the guy look like an idiot.”
Blair took his phone back. “Or maybe he is an idiot.”
“He has no idea how to handle the media, that’s for sure. He should have shut down that interview. But he’s up against a pro.” Jim sighed. “Come on, I need a cold one before we board.”
*
Honoré, Saint Marie
The size of the island had given Blair a clue, but apparently Jim had expected another jet. The plane they boarded wasn’t a jet. It was small, big enough for ten passengers, and there wasn’t much space on board. It also looked at least twenty years old.
Jim’s long legs didn’t fit into the space. He took the aisle seat so he could at least stretch out one leg. Blair, being shorter, took the window seat. They were seated just behind the wing and he could see streaks of rust in the paint. Or maybe it was dirt.
Jim wiped sweat from his forehead. “No aircon on this one,” he grumbled. “I know I shouldn’t be surprised by the heat, but Cascade is never like this.”
“It reminds me of my student trips to South America,” Blair said.
“Yeah, maybe that’s the problem.”
Blair nodded, understanding. Some of Jim’s memories of South America were traumatic.
Blair peered out of the window, watching the turquoise waves below them. He was excited for this adventure. A week on a tropical island, a working trip, sure, but there would be little work to do. There would be time to explore, to have fun. He was looking forward to it.
In spite of the aged plane, they reached Saint Marie on time, the little plane circling Honoré Airport before landing on a tarmac runway. They had to walk from the runway to the airport building. Passport control did not take long. Blair collected most of their luggage, but Jim retrieved his gun case and had to explain all over again that he was a police officer on police business and had a permit to travel with the gun.
“Yes, sir,” the official agreed, “but you are not permitted to carry a gun on Saint Marie. You must keep it locked up.”
Jim’s expression broadcast that he thought the rule was ridiculous, but he answered, “I understand,” his tone even and agreeable.
The official handed over the gun case and Jim thanked him and crossed the room to where Blair waited.
“All good?” Blair asked.
“For now.” Jim reached for his bag. “Let’s go.”
*
Emerging into painfully bright sunlight, Jim pulled a pair of shades from his pocket to cover his eyes. He blinked a few times as his sight adjusted and then he focussed on the two people watching him. The tall man was solidly built for his age, wearing an unfamiliar beige uniform complete with cap covering hair cropped short enough that he appeared to be bald. The woman beside him was younger, pretty, with straightened, dark hair falling just below her shoulders and skin the colour of caramel. She wore knee-length shorts, a colourful blouse and white running shoes. She was an odd contrast to the man’s formal uniform, but certainly hers was the more sensible dress for the climate.
Jim headed toward them.
The woman stepped forward with a bright smile. “Detective Ellison?”
He stuffed the gun case under his left arm so he could extend his right hand. “Jim Ellison,” he confirmed. “This is my partner, Blair Sandburg.”
She shook his hand firmly. “Welcome to Saint Marie. I’m DS Florence Cassell of Honoré Police.” She spoke with a noticeable French lilt, not the Caribbean accent he had expected. “This is Police Commissioner Selwyn Patterson.”
Jim turned his eyes to the uniformed man. The title partially explained the uniform. It gave him an air of authority. He offered his hand. “Pleased to meet you, Commissioner.”
Patterson’s handshake was brief, but very firm. “You are welcome, Detective Ellison.”
Blair shook Cassell’s hand, his eyes sparkling. “Hi. We were expecting to meet a Detective Parker?”
Cassell glanced at the commissioner before she answered. “Yes. DI Parker is…unwell.”
Jim didn’t like the silent communication. “The prisoner?” he asked.
“Mr Barbier remains our guest at the station,” Patterson answered. “I would like you to identify the man as soon as possible so we can expedite this matter.”
Jim nodded. “I’m happy to do that now, if you like.”
“Straight to business,” Patterson said. “I appreciate that.”
They loaded their bags into Patterson’s car, a large sedan: the kind that looked like it came with a chauffeur, though Patterson climbed into the driver’s seat. Jim took shotgun and Blair climbed into the back.
Patterson started the car and steered out of the lot. “I hope you will enjoy your stay on Saint Marie. Our island has a great deal to offer.”
“I haven’t seen much of it yet,” Jim answered, “but since there are only two flights a week, we’ll have some time to explore.”
Blair leaned forward, one hand on the back of Jim’s seat. “I heard your museum has a display of pirate treasure,” he said excitedly.
Jim tuned out the rest of the conversation, instead taking in their surroundings as the car made its way through the streets. Buildings of pale stone with colourful doors. They passed a market: a kaleidoscope of colourful sheets covering displays of pots and tools, baskets of fruit and vegetables, fish and live crabs. Jim could smell food cooking, a mixture of sweet and spicy scents, and underlying it all the salt tang of the ocean. The sounds were a cacophony of voices and music over the sound of the car’s engine.
Then he saw the harbour ahead: stone jetties and a variety of boats, from graceful yachts to one-person dinghies, and beyond them the open Caribbean ocean, blue-green and still. It was a lovely sight.
Cassell was following them in an ancient-looking Jeep and it rattled along behind, occasionally emitting a belch of smoke.
They drove uphill from the harbour and in just a few minutes reached a building with a sign that read Honoré Police. Without the sign, Jim wouldn’t have guessed it was the police station. There were no cop cars outside, no sign of uniforms on patrol or any kind of activity. There was a motorbike that looked like it had been old in the eighties with a ridiculous sidecar attached. He began to suspect that this department was smaller than he had imagined, and understood why they were so happy to have this prisoner taken off their hands – and their island.
Still, the station was a pleasant change from the steel-and-glass of Cascade. A single storey with yellow walls and peeling paint on the shutters, the station stood at the top of a grassy slope. Flowers growing in the verges filled the air with sweet scents and Jim could hear the buzzing of bees and smaller insects around the flowers.
They trooped up the steps toward the door and a young man emerged, wearing a police uniform. He smiled when he saw them and stepped back into the station, making way for them all to pass.
Inside, the station reminded Jim of Blair’s old office at Rainier: three wooden desks with the usual accoutrements of an office: old computers, phones, papers and trays. There was a small kitchen area with a refrigerator and a tea kettle. Ceiling fans rotated above them, doing very little to cut through the heat. Odd scents reached Jim’s sensitive nose and he coughed a little, covered his mouth to hide it and concentrated for a moment, sorting through the scents. Animals: chickens, perhaps a cat and something else he couldn’t immediately place.
“Detective,” Cassel said as she entered, “this is Sergeant Hooper.”
The young uniformed cop offered his hand with a sunny smile. “JP. Welcome to Saint Marie.”
Jim shook his hand. “Jim Ellison. And this is my partner, Blair Sandburg.”
Blair shook hands with JP. “Good to meet you.”
Commissioner Patterson stepped forward. “Sergeant Hooper, please take Detective Ellison to see our prisoner.”
“Yes, of course. This way.” JP indicated an open doorway and Jim followed him.
There were two cells: metal cages with floor-to-ceiling bars, each with its own cot. Only one was occupied. The occupant looked up and Jim instantly recognised him.
“Hello, Barbier.”
Leon Barbier was tall and thin, his skin tanned dark by the sun. Since he fled Cascade he must have spent most of his time in the tropics. It made sense. This was a good place to get lost if you could stay out of trouble.
He met Jim’s eyes without recognition. “Do I know you?”
“Ellison. Cascade PD. Got a judge back home who wants a word with you about an outstanding warrant.”
“Cascade? What did I do? Park in the wrong space?”
So, he was going to play dumb. It wouldn’t matter. “Tell it to the court, Barbier. I’m just here to get you there.” Jim turned round and walked out. He nodded to the commissioner. “That’s him,” he confirmed.
Cassell and Blair looked deep in conversation, but the turned around as Jim spoke. “What are the charges?” she asked.
“He led a crew of bank robbers. Hit five banks in Cascade. We got most of the crew but Barbier ran before I could arrest him. Armed robbery, murder. I’d like to see his rap sheet on Saint Marie, if you don’t mind.”
Cassell glanced at the commissioner, who nodded. She crossed to a desk and slid open a drawer, extracting a file. “He has been a person of interest in several crimes,” she explained, offering the file to Jim, “but there has never been enough evidence to file charges.”
Jim took the file and flipped through the pages. Bootleg alcohol, smuggling, one case of assault…
“The pattern is familiar,” Cassell said. “We know what he’s doing.”
“You just can’t prove it,” Jim concluded. He saw her nod. “We had the same problem. It’s why he had enough time to run.”
“But you can prove your charges now?”
“Oh, yeah.” Jim didn’t elaborate. It had taken time to get an expert to corroborate what he, thanks to his enhanced senses, had already seen on the CCTV footage. That physical evidence together with testimony from one of his crew who took the DA’s deal, would put Barbier away.
“That is good to hear,” Patterson said. “I, for one, just want him off this island. DS Cassell will drive you to your hotel. If you come by my office in the morning, we can go over the paperwork and schedule an extradition hearing before the judge.”
“How long will that take?”
“Don’t worry. We can go before the judge before the next plane leaves. As long as all the documents are in order, there should be no problem.”
*
The Jeep bounced along the road past the harbour once more.
“A question for you,” Jim said to Cassell.
“Of course,” she answered.
“Do you keep animals in the police station?”
Cassell smiled as if amused by the question. “Not as a rule. The houses behind the station have a chicken coop and they often escape and wander in. We chase them out.”
“I could smell something else.” Jim caught himself scratching his arm and stopped it with an effort. This heat was giving him hives.
“There is a cat that sneaks in at night sometimes, and last week we had a goat in the cells while we located its owner.”
Blair laughed aloud. “Oh man. We’re not in Kansas any more, are we? Can you imagine Simon letting us keep a goat…?”
Jim chuckled. “We had a snake in the bullpen once. It was evidence.”
‘You keep bulls?” Cassell sounded surprised.
Blair shook his head. “It’s what the cops call the Major Crimes unit.”
Past the harbour the buildings looked newer, more expensive.
Cassell pulled into the hotel lot and parked. “Here we are. If you like, I can call by in the morning and take you to the commissioner’s office.”
“Thanks. That would be helpful, if you have time.”
“It’s a quiet island. We don’t have a heavy caseload. Eight thirty?”
“Fine with me. Thanks for the ride.”
Blair opened the Jeep’s door. “Thanks, Detective Cassell.”
“Florence, please.”
“Florence. I love your accent.”
Jim reached over and lightly smacked his wrist. “Flirt on your own time, Cassanova.” He grabbed his own bag. “We’ll see you at eight thirty…Florence.”
They headed into the hotel and the temperature around them dropped instantly. Air conditioning. Wonderful!
They were assigned a suite on the third floor. Two bedrooms with a large room connecting them. Off the middle room was a balcony that overlooked the beach and the wide expanse of the ocean beyond. It was a better suite than Jim had expected the PD to pay for, and he figured that, even if this was within budget, he owed Simon a favour for this.
He set his bag on the bed and stripped off his shirt. It was damp with sweat and he needed a shower in the worst way. He rummaged around for his wash bag.
“Chief, I’m going to…what?” There was an odd look in Blair’s eyes.
Blair moved closer to him and reached out, his palm hovering over Jim’s skin, close enough for Jim to feel him there but without actually touching. Jim looked down and saw the pinkish bumps on his skin.
“It’s just the heat,” he insisted. “I’ll take a shower. It should help.”
Blair nodded. “Okay, but I packed an organic salve for you. You should put some on before you get dressed.”
Mother hen, Jim thought affectionately. He grabbed the wash bag and headed for what he assumed was the bathroom door.
“I’ll unpack while you shower.”
“Put my gun in the safe,” Jim instructed.
“Sure.”
The bathroom was luxurious. A large bathtub and a separate shower, a huge mirror above a vanity surface. Air con turned itself on as he entered and Jim stripped off the rest of his clothing quickly. He stepped into the shower.
Bliss.
When he emerged, scrubbed, shaved and wearing nothing but a hotel towel, the balcony doors were open. The net curtain that covered them moved gently in the breeze. Blair was out there, relaxing on a sun lounger.
Jim pulled the net aside enough to poke his head through. “Having fun, Chief?”
“I can’t stay out here too long. Even with sunscreen, I’m gonna burn. But it’s gorgeous. I could sleep out here, maybe.”
“Only if you want to be eaten alive by insects,” Jim said.
Blair looked crushed. “Oh, man!”
“But I’m sure you packed insect repellant, too. Might be nice to have a beer out there in the evening.”
Blair rose from his sun lounger. “Sounds good. I’ll get that salve for you.” He headed past Jim. “Florence recommended a bar near the harbour. It’s where the local cops drink. We could go there for dinner.” He screwed the cap off a tube and squeezed some onto his fingers.
“Is it far?”
“Nothing’s far. This town is small. According to Google Maps it’s about a fifteen minute walk from the hotel.”
“Okay, then.” Jim held out his arm for Blair. “We have the rest of the afternoon to ourselves. Anything you want to do?”
Blair patted the salve gently over Jim’s rash. “There’s a lot we can do here,” he reported, having gathered a handful of brightly coloured flyers from the hotel lobby. “There’s a museum with pirate treasure. There’s a company that does horseback tours of the jungle. We could hire a boat to go fishing or wreck diving or just sail around the island. There’s a volcano with a research station that’s open on…”
“Whoa, slow down. It’s been a long day and I’m not up for anything too active. Not today.” The salve smelled like cucumber and was cooling on his overheated skin. It helped. “Let’s just wander around town and find somewhere to eat and drink. Tomorrow, after we meet with the Commissioner, we can do something fun. Okay?”
Blair grinned. “Okay.”
*
Honoré seemed like a town that knew how to have a good time. There were a lot of different cultures represented: the island was technically British now, but had been owned by the French for a long time. The population was predominantly Afro-Caribbean and Blair could see the mix of cultures represented in fashion and hairstyles: everything from Tahitian voodoo-inspired culture to the laid-back fashion of Jamaican Reggae. As they walked into the vibrant market, Blair heard voices speaking English and French as well as a local Creole he couldn’t fully make out.
He glanced at Jim, checking in case this place was too much for his senses, but Jim seemed relaxed. There were stalls selling fresh fruit: giant melons and pineapples, bright pink dragon fruit, papayas and guava as well as the more familiar apples and lemons. The seafood stall had fresh fish piled high like the fish market back in Cascade, but also octopus and baskets of living lobster and crabs. There were several stalls selling music: CDs and vinyl, another selling movies on DVD and even VHS tapes. Blair knew he had a stupid smile on his face but he couldn’t help it. Saint Marie was such a fabulous mixture! The anthropologist in him was fascinated.
After the market they wandered to the harbour. Jim chatted to some of the boat owners offering their boats for hire. Later they found the place Florence had recommended: Catherine’s Bar.
“I don’t know about you, Chief, but I’m ready for some food. What do you think?”
“I could eat,” Blair agreed.
The bar was open to the elements: a central hut which was the bar and kitchen surrounded by tables and a deck under the shelter of a roof of woven palm leaves but no walls, so it was air conditioned by the breeze flowing inland from the sea. There were not many patrons, and a woman came out from behind the bar to greet them.
“Table for two?” She spoke with a strong French accent.
“Yes, please,” Blair answered. “Are you Catherine? DI Cassel suggested we come here.”
“That was kind of Florence,” she answered. “Yes, I am Catherine Borday. How do you know her?”
Jim took that one. “Professionally. We’re here on police business.” He offered his hand. “Jim Ellison, and this is Blair Sandburg.”
“Ah. You are here for the smuggler.”
Jim frowned. “You know about this?”
She smiled. “Selwyn mentioned it. It is not so strange. I am Mayor of Honoré, and often work closely with the Commissioner.” She led them to a table with a view of the beach and offered them each a menu. “Can I get you some drinks?”
“A beer for me.” Jim accepted the menu and took a seat where he had a view of the bar as well as the beach.
“American beer? I recommend our local IPA, but it may be stronger than you are used to.”
Jim hesitated just long enough for Blair to answer for them both. “Local sounds great. Two, please.” He glanced at Jim who nodded agreement.
“Coming right up,” Catherine smiled. The breeze caught the chiffon of her dress as she turned away.
Blair turned his attention to the menu. It was nominally in English, but he didn’t recognise most of the dishes listed and there were no descriptions.
Catherine returned with two beers, golden liquid in tall, short-stemmed glasses. She set a glass in front of each of them. “Anything to eat?”
“I hope so,” Blair answered, “but, can I ask you what’s in some of these?”
“Of course!” Catherine bent over Blair’s menu. She gave a brief description of each item, and almost nothing was familiar to Blair. The curry was goat, with a plantain version for vegetarians. There was an octopus salad, something called callaloo which was a Saint Marie specialty, and a stew made with five different varieties of chilli.
Blair wanted to know the specific types of chilli, and had other questions about the spices. At first, Catherine answered his questions, but after a while she became impatient.
“Why don’t you just try it, Blair? Live a little! If you don’t like it, you can send it back.”
That was when Jim intervened. “He’s asking for me, Catherine. I’m unusually sensitive to some spices.”
Immediately, her expression changed, though Blair thought she was still irritated. “If you like, I can ask the chef for chicken and chips. There is a regular customer who also prefers English food.”
She said chicken and chips the way Blair might have said shit sandwich.
Jim shook his head. “Thanks, but no. I like spicy food. Just have a couple of things that don’t agree with me.” He glanced down at the menu. “I think I’ll risk the calleloo. Chief?”
Blair grinned. “Seafood platter, please.”
“Would you like a cocktail to go with that? The Hurricane pairs nicely with calleloo.”
Blair saw Jim hesitate and grinned. “We’re in the Carribean. And off duty.”
Jim shot him a look but nodded at Catherine. “What the hell. Whatever you recommend.”
That got her smiling. “I’ll bring the drinks with your meals. Enjoy.”
There was a gentle breeze coming from the sea, so it wasn’t too hot in the bar. When the food arrived Blair watched Jim taste the calleloo carefully. He nodded and smiled.
“It’s good,” he said, taking a larger spoonful.
Blair’s cocktail was a gradient of colours: bright blue at the bottom shading through green to yellow at the top, and topped off with a lot of fruit threaded onto a long skewer. He pulled the skewer out and sipped the drink.
“Whew! That’s strong!” Despite the colour, there was a lot of rum in there. He wasn’t sure what else. A lot of ice, and some kind of fruit juice giving it a slight bitterness.
More patrons arrived as they ate, and Blair noticed that Catherine greeted everyone personally. She may have simply been an excellent host, but he thought she knew each person, and was greeting friends. This wasn’t a place for tourists, but for locals.
The arrival of the local police wasn’t unexpected, since they had recommended the place. Florence had changed into a green and yellow sun dress, and JP had shed the crisp uniform and now wore what Blair thought of as an Hawaiian shirt over pale stonewashed jeans. They were accompanied by a white man wearing a pale blue shirt with a stiff collar – the kind you’d usually wear with a tie.
“Do you think that’s Parker?” Blair said in a low voice.
Jim nodded. “He doesn’t look sick. Let’s see if he introduces himself.”
Blair tried not to stare at the group, but he found his eyes constantly drawn that way. When he looked at his partner, Jim had an expression of concentration that told Blair he was listening in.
Blair saw Catherine approach the table with two beers and a tall glass that Blair guessed was lemonade. She spoke to each person as she set the glasses in front of them.
“It’s Detective Parker,” Jim confirmed, speaking quietly. “He’s her chicken-and-chips customer. DS Cassell is filling him in on what’s happened today.”
Blair stayed quiet, letting Jim do his thing.
“She wants him to come back to the station. Apparently, the Commissioner doesn’t like it.”
Blair nodded.
“Heads up,” Jim said as Parker rose and headed their way. Cassell followed him, carrying her drink.
Jim stood politely as the other man approached.
“Detective Ellison.” Parker offered his hand. “I’m sorry I was unable to meet you earlier.”
Jim shook the offered hand. “Jim, please. This is my partner, Blair Sandburg.”
Parker stretched a hand toward Blair. “Detective Sandburg.”
Blair grinned. “Oh, I’m not a detective. I’m a consultant for Cascade PD.”
“Oh, uh…” Parker seemed flustered, perhaps having clocked that partner had more than one meaning. “Yes, of course. I, uh, I just wanted to introduce myself. I understand you’ll be meeting the Commissioner tomorrow to arrange the extradition.”
Jim nodded. “That’s the plan. We’re hoping to get the next flight out. DS Cassell said your team have no objections.”
“Well, I think we’d be able to prove our case, given time, but your request has priority.”
“Thanks,” Jim said.
“I hope you’re feeling better,” Blair said. “We were told you were sick.”
“I’m not sick so much as…uh…I can’t go to the station.”
Blair tried not to look confused. “Oh?”
Cassell came to his rescue. “DI Parker has allergies,” she offered. “He believed he was suffering from sick building syndrome, but I think we discovered the culprit.”
Parker looked as if he wanted to argue the point, but held back, maybe because Jim and Blair were strangers. Instead, he offered a hesitant smile. “Yes, I just need better antihistamines. Anyway, I wanted to introduce myself. If there’s anything you need while you’re here, please let me or my team know.”
Jim nodded briskly. “We will, Detective. Thank you.”
“I’ll leave you to your supper. Good to meet you both.” He headed back to his table. As they walked away, Blair heard, “If it was the cat making me sick, it would be better now, wouldn’t it?”
Jim sat down and picked up his glass. “Sick building syndrome? The guy is nuts.”
Blair glanced after Parker. “Sick building syndrome is a real thing, but you’re right, that’s not his problem.”
“It is? I’ve never heard of it.”
“It’s kinda like Gulf War syndrome, in the sense that no one knows for sure what causes it. Some people just have a bad reaction to specific locations. The theory is it’s caused by airborne toxins and some people are just more sensitive, or get more exposure for some reason. But the police station has been there a long time. If there were toxins in the building, others would have reacted to them before Parker.”
“Uh-oh. What are you thinking, Chief?”
“Nothing!” Blair protested, but then he sighed. “It’s an interesting coincidence, isn’t it? You had a reaction to something today as well. Did you notice it before we visited the station?”
“That was a heat rash. Are you ready to go?”
“Sure.”
Jim rose to pay for their food and Blair watched the three officers enjoying their drinks. The heat was uncomfortable, but he didn’t think that alone had caused Jim’s rash.
*
Florence watched the two Americans leave, noting how they walked close to each other. They didn’t hold hands, but those seemingly accidental touches didn’t seem so accidental to her. She knew what it was like to have to avoid putting a relationship on display. Or perhaps she was imagining the connection between the two men. Contemplating it was a pleasant distraction, though.
Being back on Saint Marie was harder than she had anticipated. It was almost a year since the shooting, when she lost her fiancé, Patrice, and almost lost her own life.
She sipped her cocktail to cover a sigh, then made an effort to smile. “I’m sorry, sir. Could you say that again?”
“I asked who will be checking on the cells,” DI Parker answered.
“JP needs to get home to Rosey, so I will do it,” Florence said. “Catherine is packing up a meal for Mr Barbier.” They didn’t have enough staff to have someone on duty 24 hours a day. There was no choice but to leave the prisoner alone overnight.
Parker nodded. “Thanks.”
“And I’ll make sure the cat can’t get in. Will you come in to the building tomorrow, sir?”
“I suppose I have to give it a try,” Parker hedged.
Florence stopped herself from sighing. She did understand his reluctance. As weird as his self-diagnosis of “sick building syndrome” was, he had been genuinely unwell.
“Sir, I promise I will double-check every window. Nothing will get into the station overnight.”
He gave a nervous smile and nodded. “I’ll come in.”
“Then I’ll pick you up at eight,” Florence said briskly, to make sure he couldn’t change his mind. She stood, glancing toward the bar. “I’d better go. Goodnight, sir.”
“Goodnight, Florence,” he answered.
Catherine placed the brown bag inside another for insulation and folded the top over several times to seal it. She offered the bag to Florence who took it with a smile.
“Bon appetit,” Catherine said.
Florence answered with a smile and headed out.
*
Florence slid the packaged food through the bars. It was awkward, since the container was slightly larger than the space allowed, but without backup she was not going to unlock the cell. Barbier watched her struggle with it, moving to pick up the bag only when she was done. She returned to the main room to wait while he ate his meal.
After checking the shutters on each window were firmly closed and locked, she searched around the space so she could assure the DI that no animals were in the station. She automatically tidied a little as she searched, straightening papers on desks, making sure computers were off and the phone was diverted to the emergency service.
When she judged enough time had passed, she returned to the cell.
Barbier had returned the container to the bag and left it by the cell door.
Florence bent to retrieve it. “Your cutlery?” she prompted.
With a sigh, he slid the knife and fork toward the bars. “Are you really going to hand me over to those Americans?” Barbier asked.
Florence straightened. Detective Ellison had a warrant for murder, which meant Barbier would serve longer than he would on Saint Marie for common assault. Though she wanted Grace to see justice, the arrangement seemed just to her.
“It isn’t my decision,” she answered. “The judge will decide.”
“When?”
“The hearing will be tomorrow or the day after,” she said.
“My lawyer didn’t mention it.”
“I don’t think it involves him. The judge will examine the extradition request and decide whether it takes priority over the charges you face here.”
“But I didn’t do anything! I haven’t even been in the states for years.”
Florence knew better than to engage in that kind of argument. He surely knew that the Americans had sufficient evidence, or they would not have come all this way.
“Can I get you anything else before I leave?” she asked, mostly to cut off further discussion.
“Some tea?”
He didn’t add a please. Florence hadn’t expected it. Returning to the little kitchenette she boiled water for tea. While she waited for it to brew, she glanced over the calls registered that day.
Islanders called Honoré Police for all sorts of reasons. Pets going missing, boys on bicycles frightening pedestrians with their speed, noise complaints about the crab racers on the beach…few calls were crimes that truly needed police attention. She moved the crab racers complaint to her to-do pile. Though the noise was merely nuisance, the crab racing was technically classed as gambling, so was illegal in public places. Played on a large, round table top, the competitors placed crabs in the centre and took bets on which would first reach the outer ring. Their previous DI, Detective Jack Mooney, had enjoyed a flutter on the crabs, so much so that when ordered to move them on from the beach he offered his own beachside shack as a venue, neatly getting around the law. But now he was back in London the gamers would need to find a new, legal, place to race.
And thinking of DI Mooney had led her thoughts back to the shooting and how kind he had been, and she shook her head, blinking back the tears once more. Jack came to Saint Marie to make a new start after his wife died; she fled the island to escape the pain of her own bereavement. But they had that in common, and his gentle compassion had been one of the things that gave her the strength to return, even knowing he was no longer here. She pulled the gold chain from beneath her blouse and contemplated the ring that hung from it.
Why couldn’t she move past this? Would she mourn Patrice forever?
She took Barbier tea in a plastic mug and a stainless steel bottle of water so he would have something overnight.
She left the station, locking up behind her, and drove the Police Jeep to her home.
*
At the hotel, Blair fiddled with the settings on the air conditioning to get the room cool, but not so much it would be too cold on bare skin. When he was finally satisfied, he headed out to the balcony.
It was late evening, the last light of the sun disappearing below the horizon, and the head was far more bearable. Jim lay on the recliner, shirtless, his hands clasped behind his head, eyes closed.
Blair watched him silently for a few moments, enjoying the play of light on his muscles.
“I do know you’re there, Chief,” Jim said quietly.
Blair grinned. “Of course you do.” He moved toward the recliner and climbed onto it, straddling Jim’s hips.
Jim opened his eyes. “Not tired yet?”
“Never too tired for that.” Blair’s fingers danced down Jim’s chest, from collarbone to nipple. He felt the muscle jump under his touch.
Jim sat up, pulling his partner closer and into a kiss. For a few moments, Blair let himself get lost in his lover, enjoying his touch, his taste, his tongue. When Jim’s mouth left his to explore his neck, Blair sighed with pleasure.
“This isn’t one of those places it’s illegal, is it?” he asked worriedly.
“Only if we do it in public,” Jim answered. Then, “Come on.”
Still holding Blair, Jim stood, easily lifting the other man. Blair wrapped his legs around Jim, delighted as he was carried, swiftly, into the room and dumped onto the bed.
Blair giggled. “Show off.”
Jim grinned back. “And you love it.” He unbuttoned his jeans.
*
The Jeep’s overworked engine groaned as Florence pulled up outside the beachside shack. Surprisingly, DI Parker emerged as she shut off the engine. He appeared ready for work: his dark hair neat, linen slacks pressed, cotton shirt with his tie slightly loose.
He offered a tentative smile as he approached the Jeep. “Just a moment, Florence. I need to shut the windows, then I’m ready to go.”
Florence nodded to acknowledge his statement but was puzzled. Most of the shack’s windows lacked glass, and closing them meant sealing the shutters. Doing that during the day would ensure the interior baked in the hot sun, making it an uncomfortable place to return to.
She followed Parker back into the shack, and he was indeed closing every shutter, covering each with a net curtain as he did so.
“I have to keep the mozzies out,” he explained, seeing her frown.
As he spoke, the little green lizard that shared his living space scampered up the tree trunk behind him. Florence nodded to him. “I expect Harry will be happy to take care of any insects that get in, Inspector.”
Parker glanced dubiously at the lizard, who cocked his little green head, staring back at him. “Better to be sure, Florence.”
She shook her head inwardly, but didn’t argue. It would be a victory to get the Inspector into the office; he would figure out that turning the shack into an oven was a bad idea without her help.
She parked the Jeep outside the station and barely had the key out of the ignition before JP was at her window.
The young sergeant was slightly out of breath. “Sarge, we have a problem.”
Florence looked past him to the station and immediately understood.
Beside her, Parker had seen the door hanging off its hinges, too. “What’s happened?” he asked urgently.
“You’d better see for yourself, sir,” JP answered.
Parker bounded up the steps to the station; Florence followed with JP.
“I got here five minutes ago,” he told her as they walked.
Parker ducked under the door hanging askew, careful not to touch it. Florence followed his example. Inside there was some disturbance: a chair was overturned, some of the papers she had tidied the night before were scattered around. She wasn’t sure what to make of the scene. Her eyes went to the doorway leading to the cells.
“Barbier?” she asked.
JP shook his head silently.
Florence hurried in that direction. She half expected to find a body. But the cell stood open. There was no sign of Leon Barbier.
For a moment, Florence contemplated the empty cell. She had been the last person to see him last night, so this was her responsibility. She did not believe anyone would think she had intentionally set him free, but even so, suspicion was bound to fall on her. She mentally reviewed everything she had done. She had not unlocked the cell. She had checked every window…hadn’t she?
Returning to the main office, she saw Parker examining the broken door.
“I’ll call the commissioner,” she offered.
Parker didn’t look away from the door. “I should do that.”
“This isn’t your responsibility, sir, it’s mine.” She walked to her desk and picked up the phone.
“Florence, this isn’t your fault,” Parker said.
“I know that, sir, but I was the last person here.” She dialled the commissioner’s number quickly. When he answered, she reported the facts. He listened in silence.
“I am due to collect the American detectives in a few minutes, sir. I will tell them what has happened.”
Another moment of silence, then he answered tonelessly, “I will meet you, and them, at the station, then.”
“Yes, sir.” Florence hung up the phone and headed for the broken door. She had a sinking feeling this day was going to get worse.