The Rock 'N Roll Detective's Greatest Hits - a Spike Berenger Anthology (30 page)

He took a stool at the bar and ordered a pina collada. When in Rome…

“Mistah Berenger?”

The voice had the familiar musical lilt of a Jamaican accent. Berenger turned to see a tall, thin black man with graying short hair. He, too, wore a Hawaiian shirt, shorts, and sandals.

“Yes?”

“I’m Steve Baskin.” The two men shook hands.

“Spike Berenger. I hope you weren’t waiting long.”

“Not at all. I checked your flight arrival and allowed time for you t’ drive over dis way.”

“Let’s go over here where we can have some privacy.” Berenger hopped off the stool and carried his drink to a table away from the crowd.

“I understand you’re with the FBI?” Berenger asked.

“No more. I used t’ be. I’m retired. But I still maintain contacts.”

“You know Tommy Briggs?”

“No, never met him. I know of him. My contact in New York knows him.”

“Tommy’s my colleague. We work together. How much do you know about why I’m here?”

“Only dat you’re interested in investigatin’ the Messengers and their church.”

“Can you take me there?”

“Sure. Their property is about ten minutes away from Ocho Rios. Security is very tight there. It’s like one of dese resorts.”

“I don’t doubt it. What can you tell me about them?”

Baskin shrugged and said, “Not too much. Dey a reclusive bunch. It’s a small staff residing there when no retreats go on.”

“Do you know Chucky Tools?”

“Yes, I have met him.”

“What’s he like?”

Basked shrugged again. “I never figured him t’ be anythin’. He stays out of trouble. He’s not a tough guy.”

“Was it you that told our people in New York that the Messengers use drugs at these retreats?”

“Dat’s right, man. Dey drink a special wine dat’s made here on de island. Dey lace de wine with some drug dat loosens up people. Makes dem easy, you know what I mean?”

“Yes. I’d like to try and get a sample of it. Oh, and have you ever heard of a gang called the Jimmys?”

Baskin frowned. “No, I don’t think so. Who are dey?”

“They’re in New York but supposedly originated in the Caribbean.”

He shook his head. “Can’t say I know dem.”

Berenger nodded. “Okay. You think Tools will talk to me?”

“Dey don’t like strangers on de property. Dey prob’ly turn you away.”

“Well, let’s try it the polite way first. Then if that fails, we might need to do some sneaking around after dark. Are you up for that?”

Baskin grinned, revealing pearly white teeth. “Whatever you say, Mistah Berenger.”

“Call me Spike.”

T
he property was off the main highway, marked with a sign proclaiming “The Messengers – A Retreat for the Enlightened.” Baskin drove an old Ford Pinto onto a dirt road that went about a hundred yards in and then forked. Another sign indicated that the path to the left went to the church. The path to the right was marked “Private – No Trespassing.”

“De church is open t’ de public, of course,” Baskin said. “Anyone can go t’ de services, every Sunday.”

“Just one service a week?” Berenger asked.

“As far as I know.”

“In New York they hold them every day, I think. Sometimes twice a day.”

“When Reverend Theo is in town de services are more frequent.”

“What’s the other road lead to?”

“Dat’s where de offices are and where de retreats are held.”

“Let’s see the church.”

Baskin drove to the left and followed the road a half-mile to a small schoolhouse-like structure that was painted white. A large cross adorned the eve. The parking area was empty.

“Looks deserted,” Berenger said.

“You won’t find anyone here at dis time of day. Dey at de other place.”

Baskin drove around the building so Berenger could see all sides of the modest church and then drove out toward the other fork. About a half-mile from the crossroad they came upon a barbed-wire fence and a gate. Baskin rolled down the window and pressed the call button on an intercom built next to the gate.

“Yes?” came a smooth male voice.

“We like t’ see Mistah Tools, please.”

“Who’s calling?”

“Mistah Spike Berenger, from New York City. I’m his driver, Steve Baskin.”

“What’s this about?”

“Mistah Berenger is with a security firm in New York. He has some questions about de Messengers.”

“Just a moment please.”

Baskin looked at Berenger and said, “I’m not sure tellin’ de truth was de right thing t’ do in dis case.”

Berenger replied, “I always try to be honest about who I am unless special circumstances dictate otherwise. At this point I can’t find a reason for special circumstances.”

The voice came back. “I’m sorry but Mistah Tools not here.”

“He’s not?”

“No, sir.”

“When might he return?”

“Can’t say. Probably not today.”

“I see. Well, thank you. We try another time.”

Baskin reversed, turned the car around, and headed out. “Now what?” he asked.

“We go to Plan B,” Berenger said.

I
t was shortly after 11:00 p.m. when Berenger and Baskin parked the Ford in the brush off the main highway. Baskin had supplied Berenger with boots, a soldier’s camouflage outfit, and a backpack full of various tools he might need. Baskin also let the private investigator borrow a SIG P239 9mm semiautomatic. Berenger liked SIG and thought the company made excellent firearms, although for a semi he preferred his personal Kahr P9 that he had to leave at home.

They hiked through the thick jungle-like terrain using small flashlights for illumination. Berenger asked Baskin about the possibility of stepping on snakes or other dangerous animals and Baskin replied that it was “entirely possible.” That answer didn’t bother Berenger. His time in Southeast Asia had forever immunized him against fear of the wild. He had performed many missions that involved traipsing through the jungles of not only Vietnam but also Laos, Cambodia, and the Philippines. Moving through the brush brought back memories—not always unpleasant ones—of the two years he had spent in the military as a Criminal Investigations Special Agent. The smell and feel of the jungle, the humidity, the crunching of branches beneath the boots, the constant chirping of insects, and the bright moon in the night sky served to remind Berenger that he was still a soldier, albeit an older and heavier one.

When they reached the barbed-wire fence, Baskin whispered, “Here we are. You sure you don’t want me t’ come in wit’ you?”

“No, Steve, I want to do this alone. But thanks. Go on back to the car and wait. If I’m not back by dawn, bring in the cavalry.”

“Okay, you’re de boss. By de way, if you find Mistah Tools, just lean on him a little. I think he be somebody dat don’t like t’ get hurt.” The men shook hands and Baskin took off into the dense thicket. Berenger removed the backpack, opened it, and found the wire cutters Baskin had placed inside. With four snips, he cut the wire enough for him to slip through. After donning the backpack once again, Berenger crawled through and surveyed the property below him.

He was on the top of a slope that overlooked the retreat. A large farmhouse was the main focal point. It was a two-story structure that appeared to be fifty or sixty years old, built in the grand British Imperial style from the era when the UK was Jamaica’s caretaker. Berenger suspected that a wealthy Brit who grew tobacco or coffee beans originally owned the property.

An armed guard sat in a chair on the front porch of the main house. Berenger wondered why a church organization would need an armed guard; in his opinion, this was further evidence that the Messengers were up to no good. The guard didn’t appear very alert. His chin was on his chest and the rifle lay in his lap.

Berenger moved slowly and quietly out of the brush and then darted down the slope to the side of the building. He peered through a window into a dark room. He tried to open the window but it was locked. Berenger skirted along the wall to another one and tried it. It opened freely.

He climbed through the opening, softly shut the window, and found himself in an office. There was a photocopier in the corner, mailbox slots on the wall, a postage machine, stacks of copy paper, and boxes of Messenger literature. The mailroom.

Berenger peeked into the corridor and found it empty. Somewhere in the distance Bob Marley and the Wailers were singing one of their many hits on a CD player. He snaked down the hallway, his back to the wall, and eventually came to a large open foyer facing the front door. A long reception desk was unmanned but Berenger could see small mailboxes with corresponding keys hanging over each opening. Apparently the place served partly as a hotel—guests stayed in assigned rooms during the retreats. A stack of maps showing both floors of the building lay on the desk; Berenger picked one up and studied it for a moment. The guestrooms occupied the second floor while the first floor had a sanctuary, a dining hall, a recreation room, a kitchen, and several offices.

Berenger made his way toward the kitchen, which was around the other side of the foyer and down the hall, next to the dining room. Luckily, it was empty. Using the flashlight he examined the cabinets and refrigerators and found only food supplies and dining ware. A door next to the refrigerator was not on the map. A storage room, perhaps? He tried the knob but it was locked. Not about to let that stop him, Berenger reached into the backpack and removed a putty knife that Baskin had given him. It served as a lockpick but the going wasn’t easy. The bolt was sturdy and old—it didn’t give without a good deal of force on Berenger’s part. He finally got the door open to reveal a staircase leading down into darkness.

He stepped through the door, closed it behind him, and felt an abrupt decrease in temperature. Shining the flashlight on the steps in front of him, he descended to the bottom and realized he was in a wine cellar. Bingo.

There were nearly fifty bottles lying horizontally in cubicles on one wall. He took one and examined the label. It was a cabernet made by Jamaican Spirits, a company he had never heard of. He stuck the bottle in his backpack, turned, and saw two large kegs occupying the other half of the room. Empty bottles sat in crates on a table. They obviously made and bottled the wine on the premises.

Berenger took an empty bottle, held it under a keg spigot, and poured a little of the red liquid into it. He smelled the stuff but couldn’t discern anything other than a fruity wine with a hint of charcoal. He wasn’t much of a connoisseur but to him the aroma was quite nice. At any rate, the drugs were either mixed into the wine before bottling or they were added after the wine was opened for serving.

He poured the wine into a slop sink and replaced the empty bottle. He then ascended the stairs to the kitchen. Berenger went back into the corridor and headed toward the sanctuary. The Bob Marley music grew louder as he approached the room. First making sure no guards were about, Berenger opened the double doors slightly and looked inside. The sanctuary was a near carbon copy of the Messengers’ place in New York. A little larger, able to hold a hundred people or so, it was decorated in the same grisly religious iconography that he and Suzanne had found so disturbing.

A black man with dreadlocks stood at the altar preparing something, his back to Berenger. He hadn’t heard the doors open, for a portable CD player on the floor was blasting out the reggae music. Berenger quietly let the doors swing shut behind him and he walked softly down the center aisle.

“Are you Chucky Tools?” he finally asked in a loud, commanding voice.

The man jumped and turned. “Damn, man! You scared de
shit
out of me!” He was in his forties, wiry, and looked more like a reggae musician than a church employee. Like Baskin, he also spoke with a pronounced Jamaican accent. “Who
are
you, man? How did you get in here?”

“Answer the question,” Berenger said. He grabbed the man by the shirt, turned him around, and forced him against the altar. Berenger quickly patted him down and found no weapons.

“What is dis, man? Are you de police?” he wailed.