Dust Up: A Thriller (18 page)

“Detective Carrick,” she said coolly, clearly still unswayed by my charms.

Baudet gave me a smile that was bashful, but not apologetic. I understood, too. She was not the kind of woman you would ever make apologies for. “Doyle and I were just having a good talk about politics in Haiti.”

Her smile returned in a different form. “Is it possible to have a good talk about this country’s politics?” she asked in English.

Elena came out with some sort of fruit drink for Portia. They exchanged kisses and a quick, familiar greeting in Kreyol. Then Elena slipped back inside.

“I don’t know,” I said. “It sounds like Cardon’s not so bad.”

She took a sip of her drink, savoring it in a way that strongly suggested it was not just fruit juice. “Cardon seems good,” she said, “but it’s only been a few months.”

“So you must give him a chance,” Baudet said. It sounded as though this was a conversation they’d had before.

“Absolutely,” she said. “But there is plenty of time for corruption to catch up with him. Either his own or someone else’s.”

Baudet seemed to be resisting the urge to roll his eyes. He opened his mouth, but before he could speak, the end of the block lit up and an armored police vehicle turned the corner toward us. Its headlights flashed across us as it turned, and a spotlight mounted by the driver’s window swept back and forth up the otherwise darkened street. As it rumbled closer, the sound was deafening. It slowed alongside us, the spotlight resting on us. I felt a moment of anxiety, wondering if they were going to harass us.

Baudet and I shielded our eyes, but Portia stared defiantly into the glare, barely squinting, until the truck continued on its way.

“Speaking of someone else,” she said, watching the truck disappear around the next corner.

“Who’s that?” I asked.

She rolled her eyes.

Baudet leaned forward. “Ducroix’s men. The Polis Nasyonal. Portia doesn’t trust them.”

Her eyes flashed. “And you do?”

Baudet put up his hands like he didn’t want to argue.

“So there’s no military, and Ducroix controls all the police?” I asked.

“Some more than others,” Baudet said.

“The Polis Nasyonal are the worst,” Portia said. “They are completely under Ducroix’s control.”

“I had expected to see more UN troops around. I haven’t seen any.”

“They’re mostly down in Port-au-Prince, anyway, but Ducroix requested even more of them down there. In case there was trouble, which, according to Ducroix, there always is.”

“You don’t believe him?”

She laughed sadly. “There’s always something going on. People are upset. They want to have a voice. They’re suspicious of outside interference, and history says they’re right to be. This trade summit has people worried we’re going to be swamped by biotech corporations, what it could do to the farmers, to the land, to everyone. But there’s been no violence. Ducroix makes it sound like they’re about to launch a bloody rebellion, but I don’t see that at all. So I wonder what he’s up to.” She shot Baudet a knowing look. “He seems to be overstepping in other areas, as well.”

He wrinkled his brow and frowned at her.

“What?” she said, challenging him. Before Baudet could answer, she turned to me. “Cardon kept Ducroix on from Martine’s administration. Political expediency, I guess, but he seems too corrupt and ambitious to be given so much power.”

Elena came out, holding her apron in one hand and our check in the other. Baudet handed her a handful of bills. I reached for my wallet, but he waved it away. “I insist,” he said. He exchanged a few more words with her in Kreyol. She nodded and bent over to kiss his forehead, then mumbled some form of good night, ending with “
Bonswa
.”

“
Bonswa,
Elena,” we all said as she turned to walk down the block.

Baudet watched her depart, then shot a glance at me and looked around, as if to see if anyone else was listening. He leaned toward Portia and whispered, “I told Doyle about Saint Benezet.”

She shot upright and her eyes went wide, momentarily flickering over at me. “You did what?” Her voice was a hoarse, scratchy cross between a whisper and shriek. “Are you crazy?”

Baudet held up his hands. “It’s okay,” he said.

She turned to me. “I’m sorry,” she said, “but I don’t know you. He doesn’t know you. He shouldn’t have told you.”

“We were sharing information,” he said calmly. “Doyle has told me some interesting things, as well.”

He looked at me and raised his eyebrows. I shrugged and nodded. In for a penny, in for a pound.

He told her about Ron’s murder and Miriam’s framing and escape, how I had been helping her. Portia put her hand over her mouth and her eyes welled up, but she looked at me with a new appreciation. Then he told her about Ron and Miriam’s suspicions about Energene and people getting sick from the Soyagene, but he added that his tests didn’t support that. By the time he was done, her eyes had gone from shock and sorrow to anger and stunned fear.

“I told you it was not Ebola,” she said quietly when he was done. She turned to me. “In Saint Benezet. It was not Ebola. Regi said they would not lie about something like that. But I think he is wrong. Perhaps it was chikungunya or dengue or maybe even some other hemorrhagic fever, but it was not Ebola. Ducroix’s medics had no business diagnosing it or treating it. They don’t know how to treat cholera, much less Ebola.” Her eyes burned. “If they’d known what they were doing, those people might be alive.”

Baudet shook his head. “You can’t believe that.”

She glared at him. “You are too naïve.”

A tense silence stretched on until a phone buzzed. It took me a moment to realize it was mine, a text from Danny reading, “FAA reports no downed planes or unauthorized landings, Helio or otherwise.”

I read it to out loud and texted back, “Thanks.”

“That’s good news, I guess,” Baudet said. “Yes?”

“I guess so.”

Portia remained quiet, I think annoyed at Baudet for confiding in me and for dismissing her suspicions.

As we sat there in somber silence, the day caught up with me. I’d been outrunning it, holding it at bay, keeping myself ready to move at a moment’s notice as soon as I had something to do, somewhere to go. But Danny and the FAA turned up nothing. Suddenly, I was having trouble keeping my eyes open. I turned to Baudet. “No word from Toma?”

He shook his head. “He might not call back until tomorrow.”

It occurred to me that if I was going to be any use when he did call, I needed to rest while I could.

As if reading my mind, Baudet said, “I have a very uncomfortable sofa you are welcome to, but Elena has a guesthouse just down the block, a few doors away from me. Basic but clean and comfortable.”

I smiled. “Thanks. That sounds great.”

48

Portia said a chilly good night to Baudet and a polite one to me. Baudet drove me two blocks through darkened streets, placing a quick call on the way. When we pulled over in front of the guesthouse, Elena was waiting in the doorway. Next to a bare bulb being pelted by a dozen moths and other insects was a tiny plank of wood with hand-painted letters,
OTÈL WAYAL
. I smiled as I realized it was The Royal Hotel.

She greeted us warmly as we approached and gave us each a kiss on the cheek.

“Welcome,” she said.

Baudet and I exchanged phone numbers and agreed to call each other as soon as we heard anything. Then he walked up the street to a small house three doors away.

I followed Elena through the front door and into a small vestibule. To the left was a tiny office, and past the office was a hallway, painted a deep blue, with the steps to the second floor. We climbed the stairs to a second-floor hallway with three doors. She opened one of them and gave me the key, then stepped aside, waving me in.

The room was purple, with bright green furnishings. The colors were an assault, but a cheerful one. I found myself smiling for no reason.

She smiled and closed the door.

I looked at my watch. It said nine thirty. I took out my phone, put in the zero-one-one and started entering Nola’s number, but I paused and put in Laura Tennison’s instead.

She answered tentatively on the third ring. “Hello?”

“Hi, Laura. It’s Doyle.”

“Doyle?” she said.

I heard a scuffling sound, and for a moment I thought something terrible had happened. Then Nola’s voice said, “You disappear to Haiti, leave me hanging like this, and when you finally call, you call Laura?”

“Nola, sorry, I—”

“Jesus, Doyle, I’ve been worried sick. What’s going on with you?”

“I called Laura’s number in case someone was listening in on yours.”

“Oh.” She paused. “Is that really a concern?”

“I don’t know. Just trying to be safe. Especially after the … note … I sent you earlier. I didn’t want to do anything else to draw attention to you. Or to this phone.”

“Oh.”

I sat back on the bed, feeling the waves of exhaustion wash over me. “Are you okay?”

She sighed. “I’m fine. I’m worried about you, about what you’ve gotten yourself into this time.”

“This one came to me,” I said a little defensively.

“Regardless. I don’t know if you’ve spoken to anyone, but apparently you’re back on Suarez’s shit list.”

I smiled, thinking,
There was a time when I wasn’t on Suarez’s shit list?
Then I said, “I know. I forgot to call out of work.”

“Yes, well apparently there’s also something about a case file you were supposed to bring in.”

I winced. “Crap.”

Maybe it was the stress, but for some reason, we shared a good laugh at that.

“I miss you,” she said quietly.

“I miss you, too.”

“Where are you staying?”

I laughed. “The Royal Hotel.” I told her about Baudet and Elena.

“Sounds very nice.”

“It is.”

“Any news on Miriam?”

“No. Not yet.”

“Do you think she’s…”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so, but I don’t know. Look, I might need you to do something else for me tomorrow. Those pages, the ones you’re sending to Mikel, I might need you to fax them back to me tomorrow, from somewhere safe.”

“Why? Did you forget to make a copy before you sent them?”

We both laughed. It was an in-joke about a story I’d told her about my mom one time panicking that she had a lost an important document because I hadn’t made a copy before faxing it for her.

“Something like that.”

“Seriously, though. What happened to the ones you had? The originals?”

I laughed wearily. “The police took them when they took my phone.”

“The police?!” She wasn’t laughing now.

“It was a minor misunderstanding when I first got here. Because of the passport thing. But it’s all straightened out.”

“Except they kept the files and your phone.”

“Yes, well, we’re working on that. Plus, hopefully, Miriam is okay and on her way and bringing them or sending them to Baudet.” We fell quiet for a moment after that, because it was very possible Miriam was not okay and not on her way.

“Okay,” she said. “Well, let me know where to send them and I will. But then you need to come home. I miss you, and I worry. This isn’t your job. It isn’t your fight.”

I missed her too. More than I would have thought after just one day. And maybe I was scared, too. But I thought about Miriam. About how much she probably missed Ron, about the way someone was setting her up for murder, ruining her life, trying to end it. Maybe they already had.

“But then whose fight is it?” I must have been tired, because I hadn’t meant to say it out loud. I expected Nola to get even angrier, but she stayed quiet.

“You’ll be okay,” I said.

“I’m worried about you,” she whispered. “You’re in danger. You’re not the only one who has seen what these people are capable of. I’ve been there, too, Doyle. I’ve seen what can happen.”

I didn’t know what to say to that, so I didn’t say anything. I lay there on the bed, listening to her breathing, letting her listen to me.

After a few minutes, she let out a little snort of a laugh. “How much does it cost to call from Haiti?”

“Ugh,” I said. “I hadn’t thought about that.” I looked at the phone, but the display didn’t tell me anything about that. “I guess I should go.”

“I guess so. Bring yourself home to me, Doyle. Okay?”

“I will. I love you, Nola.”

“I love you, too.”

49

I awoke at seven to a sharp knock at the door and a flashback to the night Ron Hartwell was murdered. I felt conspicuously gunless as I pulled on my pants. Then the knock came again and I realized it wasn’t the front door, it was the door to my room.

I opened it expecting Elena, but instead it was Portia, carrying a tray with a glass of mango juice and a cup of coffee. She looked even more dazzling than she had the night before, in a crisp blue dress and her canary-yellow sneakers.

I was wearing what I’d been wearing the night before, rumpled and slept in.

“
Bonjou,
” she said, offering the tray and biting back a smile as her eyes took in my bed head.

“
Bonjou,
” I replied, reaching up to pat down my hair before accepting the tray.

“Regi asked me to make sure you were up. He’s been trying to call you.”

I looked at the phone. I’d slept through three calls from Regi and a text from ten minutes ago saying he’d be there in fifteen minutes.

“I’ll wait for you downstairs,” she said.

I dashed into the bathroom, relieved to find a flimsy travel toothbrush and a tiny tube of toothpaste.

When I was done, I drank half the coffee and cooled my mouth with the juice.

Downstairs, Portia was sitting at the table in the tiny front room. Elena was topping off her coffee as I came down the stairs. She filled mine, as well, without asking.

“
Merci,
” I said, earning me a smile as she bustled back toward the kitchen.

“Toma called,” Portia said. “Regi is taking you to meet him outside the city.”

Elena stopped in mid-step and spun around. “Toma?”