The Tangled Web: an international web of intrigue, murder and romance (22 page)

The alley was narrow and shadowed by the buildings on either side. He quickly took off down it, figuring it had to lead to the back entrance of the Foster & Foster building. It did, as he discovered on reaching the parking lot at the end. Martin’s eyes roved around the lot taking in the cars. There were around twenty altogether, five of them luxury cars, including a Jaguar, a Benz and a Lexus, all parked under the shade of a canopy. Another entrance to the lot led into a lane behind the building, which was barely wide enough for two cars to pass. Seeing no one in sight, Martin went to the far end of the lot and studied the back of the building. There was only one back entrance, and no access to the roof from the outside as far as he could tell. His eyes lingered on the door. There were two locks, dead bolts in his estimation. Cautiously, he made his way towards the door.

The locks were indeed dead bolts. Easy enough to pick, Martin thought with satisfaction. He turned to leave and froze.

The security guard eyed Martin quizzically. “Can I help you?” he asked.

Martin thought fast. With the speed of a chameleon, he adopted the posture of an absent-minded professor. “I seem to have come to the wrong building,” he flustered with a confused look. “It doesn’t look familiar. I thought…I thought…”

“What address are you looking for, sir? Maybe I can help you.”

“I can’t remember the name now,” Martin said hurriedly fumbling in his shirt pockets. “I left the business card with the name in the car. I’ll have to go get it, but thanks for your help anyway.” Without waiting for a response, Martin beat a hasty retreat, leaving the guard staring after him.

It was just after 2:00 a.m. when Martin pulled into the lane behind the Foster & Foster building with his headlights extinguished. He parked a safe distance from the lot and made sure there was no one around. All was quiet. Silently, Martin closed the car door and proceeded stealthily toward the Foster & Foster parking lot, on the lookout for night security. He stood motionless as he reached the lot, ears alert for any sign of movement. Satisfied he was alone, he moved swiftly toward his goal, the back door. Martin slipped on his gloves. Deftly, he worked the first lock until it yielded. Then he went to work on the other until he felt it release. He glanced behind him, checking the parking lot one last time. As he stepped inside the building, the alarm began its warning beeps. Quickly switching on his flashlight, Martin furiously began unscrewing the alarm casing. The incessant beeping of the alarm persisted, signaling time was running out at a second a beep. Martin removed the alarm casing and put it aside. He examined the wiring, his breath ragged from the intensity of his concentration. Beads of sweat started forming on his forehead. He wiped his brow with the back of his hand while he quickly pulled another screwdriver from his pocket. Now working against time, Martin moved faster, deafening his ears to the maddening beeps. Just a few seconds more, he breathed. He gave the screwdriver a final turn and there was deafening silence. Martin slumped against the wall and took a deep breath.

He turned his flashlight off and made his way slowly towards a pool of light spilling through an open door ahead of him. Still listening for the slightest sound, he continued down the passage towards the light. He reached the end and peered into the room. It seemed to be the front foyer, except it was bare of furnishings, the only decoration, old photographs wallpapering the walls. Opposite the front door was an elevator. Martin perused the room. There had to be an emergency staircase somewhere. Finding no sign of one, he returned to the passage. He found what he was looking for after a few paces.

Inside the stairwell, it was pitch black. Martin switched on his flashlight and started climbing, not stopping until he reached the fourth floor. He opened the stairwell door and entered a reception area. The lights were on. Martin took stock: a desk with a computer, a vase of flowers. Facing the desk, plush seating arranged around a coffee table with magazines. Nice art hanging on the walls. There were two closed doors behind the reception desk. Martin walked over to the one on the left and opened it: floor to ceiling bookshelves stacked with law books, a leather chair behind the desk; two in front of it. A window looking like it might face the capital building. He closed the door behind him and went to investigate the other office. It was a clone of the first, just different colors and slightly differently configured furniture. Seeing little else except a restroom serving the two offices, he went back to the stairs and continued his climb to the fifth floor.

Offices were eerily quiet in the night Martin observed as he walked down the deserted corridor painted in generic white. You could have heard a paperclip drop in the silence. He peered into a small employee dining room with a kitchenette at the back. It was of no use. It had no windows. Martin moved on to the next room. The door was closed. He opened it. It was another restroom. Martin halted, trying to get his bearings. It hit him any room facing the capital building would have to be on the opposite side. Directly in front of him was another closed door, most likely another rest room. Thinking about it, he was pretty sure this was the room with the window he had spotted from the street. He went over to it. The door was locked.

Martin continued down the corridor checking the remaining rooms on the chance there might be an empty one with a window facing the street. The first room he came to housed two large copiers and a fax. Stationery boxes were stacked on metal shelves, wastebaskets spilling over. The next room was nothing but wall-to-wall file cabinets on every side. Martin moved on until he reached the end of the hall. That was it. There was little hope of using any of the rooms on this floor. There would be people occupying them, or coming and going, during office hours. He retraced his steps searching the ceiling for any sign of access to the roof. There was none. Finally he returned to the locked door and gazed at it contemplatively. He found it strange that the room was locked. There had been no other inaccessible room on the fifth floor. Martin decided to give the lock another try. He pulled his tool from his pocket and got to work again. A few futile minutes went by before Martin began cursing under his breath. The damn thing wouldn’t budge. What now, he asked himself. He stared at the lock in puzzlement. It was the first that had ever got the better of him. He decided no matter what, he’d have to get the uncooperative thing to yield.

THIRTY-THREE

It was a strong hunch that led Detective Doran back to South Lagoon Marina that day. The employees of the marina had been questioned on more than one occasion after the crime, so it was on pure instinct that Doran made the two-hour drive from the capital to the south coast again.

When the police had previously questioned everyone who had been at the marina the morning the McGuire boat was last seen, nobody had come up with anything that provided the slightest clue as to how the sports fisher with five aboard may have run into trouble. According to all reports, everything had seemed perfectly normal that day. Anne McGuire had ordered sandwiches and snacks for the boating party and stocked up on beer and soft drinks while her husband fuelled the boat. They were going to Fisherman’s Key for the day, Anne McGuire had said. Adrienne had come to use the restroom before boarding the boat. Ian Ferguson had been seen talking with Ray McGuire while McGuire got the boat fuelled. The two had boarded together before the boat took off. That’s as much as anybody could remember.

Doran arrived at the marina and walked to the fuel pumps at the end of the dock. Shading his eyes from the glare, he squinted in the direction of the Key. It was a peaceful scene. Yet five people had been murdered out on those waters ruffled now only by whitecaps taking their sweet time to get to shore. Doran thought about the interrogation, which had taken place the day before. Jackson, the self-confessed perpetrator, had denied telling anyone anything. He had punctuated his defense of himself with a mouthful of obscenities that had only served to enrage the Chief Inspector. But they’d had little choice but to let Jackson go. The evidence was only hearsay.

Doran turned on his heels and walked back down the dock to the marina. It was long after lunchtime, but there were a few staff still in the restaurant. He found a man mopping the floor and a woman wiping the bar counter. There was laughter coming from the kitchen.

Doran nodded a hello to the man and went directly to the bar. He introduced himself. The woman was more than happy to talk about that day. Everybody was still talking about it, she told Doran as she offered him a beer on the house. But as she recounted the morning of the murders, the story remained the same. The McGuires and their friends were going out to Fisherman’s Key is all anyone knew. Nobody had noticed anything out of the ordinary.

“Tings get suh bad a man can’t even guh fishing widout somebody shoot im,” the man commented as he put down his mop and came over to the bar.

“What makes you say they were going fishing?” Doran asked.

“Calvin guh wit dem,” the man shrugged.

“You’re telling me there was someone else on the boat?” Doran said skeptically.

Mi know wha mi talk bout,” the man insisted. “Calvin deh pon di boat. Mi did see im on the boat when dem did tek off.”

“Are you sure?” Doran asked.

“Yes, mi sure im was pon di boat. Mi wouldn tell yuh dat if mi wasn sure.”

Doran remained skeptical. “What was Calvin doing on the boat?”

“Im is di boat boy whe Mr. McGuire tek wit im when dem going after marlin. Im always wit dem during di tournaments dem. Mr. McGuire seh Calvin is im lucky charm. Is not luck. Calvin im young, but im know bout marlin. Dem man in a dem big boat don’t know nuttin bout marlin fishing. Dem jus a play.”

Doran was now beginning to wonder if there was any truth to what the man was telling him. He also realized if the man’s claim was true, the boy was likely a witness to the murders.

“Where can I find Calvin?” he asked.

“Im live jus down di road on di beach. Guh to di fork and tek a lef turn. Is di second house by di beach. Yuh might catch im now if yuh hurry.”

With mounting excitement, Doran rushed to his jeep. There had been six people on the McGuire boat, not five! He tore down the coast road and came to a screeching stop in front of a windowless fisherman’s shack, its slatted wood walls bleached by the salt and sun. He jumped out of the jeep and walked around to the side facing the beach. A young teenage boy poked his head out of the dark interior curiously.

“Yuh name Calvin?” Doran asked walking up to the door.

The boy eyed Doran suspiciously.

“Can I talk to you for a minute?”

“Is wha you want, sah?”

Doran flashed his badge. “My name is Detective Doran. I’m with the C.I.D. I just want to find out if you know something.”

Calvin immediately became guarded. “Wha yuh wan know, sah?”

“I was wondering if you know anything about what happened with the McGuire boat,” Doran said casually. “Did you see anything suspicious that day?”

“Mi don’t know nuttin bout no boat,” Calvin replied averting his eyes.

Doran took a deep breath. He didn’t want to come down too hard on the boy, but he had to find a way to get him to talk.

“Can we sit down and talk?” Doran asked, indicating a nearby bench that had seen better days.

Calvin looked around nervously.

Doran sat and rested his elbows on his knees. He hung his head ponderously. “I don’t want to frighten you, but I have to tell you somebody at the marina saw you on the boat.”

“Is who tell yuh dat?” Calvin asked with open alarm.

Doran made as if the name was of no significance. “Look,” he explained, “We can’t catch the murderer if nobody wants to talk, my man. There’s a murderer running free out there because nobody will talk. You want that? You want whoever killed those people to murder somebody else?”

Calvin shifted on his feet uncomfortably.

“Okay,” Doran said standing to leave. “If you don’t want to talk, I can’t force you.” He started towards his jeep.

“It wasn’t jus one man who kill dem people,” he heard Calvin say in a low voice.

When the boy at last spoke, it was as if a floodgate had opened. He told Doran how the boat trip to Fisherman’s Key had started off for him with baiting the lines with lures. When he had finished with the lines, he went down to the head to use the bathroom. That’s when he heard the plane, he told Doran. He hadn’t been in the head but what seemed like a few seconds before the boat did a rapid about turn. It was such a sudden turn, he’d had to grab on to the wall to steady himself and not miss the toilet bowl. By the time he got out of the head, everybody was up on deck. Something told him to stay put.

“Someting did tell me to stay down dere an keep quiet, sah. When mi did look out and si di fast boat come up, mi realize mi was right.”

“What brought you to that conclusion?”

Calvin met Doran’s gaze somberly. “Mi did see dem tree man before. Mi hear bad tings bout dem. Mi father is a fisherman. Him know everyting ah g’wan. Everybody know wha dem man do. Dem run drugs.”

“What kind of boat were they in?” Doran asked, hardly able to contain his excitement.

“One a dem Cigarette boats, sah. Mi did see di boat when it come up alongside, but di man in a di boat never see mi. Even before mi did hear di first shot, mi run back in a di head an hide. Mi did feel it in mi bones someting bad was going happen.”

“So you were hiding in the head when they killed everybody?” Doran asked in amazement.

“Yes, sah. Dem never know mi in dere. Dem never look in a di head. But mi could hear everyting wha g’wan. When mi come out, di whole place full a blood. Everybody did dead.”

Doran said nothing for a minute or two. “How did you manage to get away?” he eventually asked.

“Dem tow Mr. McGuire boat. Mi sneak out a di head an crouch down watch dem. Dem was looking straight ahead at where dem was going. Mi jus jump off di back a di boat an swim fi mi life. Mi mus a did swim more dan one mile before one fisherman pick mi up.