Hawke

Hey, way cool plate for his new ’Vette.

SEE YA

He was now living on a pullout sofa. In the upstairs apartment of his buddy Sparky Rollins, one of the guards up on the tower. It wasn’t so bad. He could watch dirty movies on TV Drink all the beer he wanted. Eat stuff with his hands. Burp, fart, leave the toilet seat up. Hang at the USO until closing time. Nobody ragging his ass all day and night, right? Not a bad life.

Want to hear something fu

Mystery of the orange pecker disease solved, Sherlock. Life was good.

So why had he snuck back inside his house last night? He’d used the key under the mat to let himself in through the kitchen door. Opened a bottle of Mount Gay and had a few: Gone and got his gun out of the garage and stuck it in his mouth. Pulled the trigger five friggin’ times. Man. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. You talk about dodging a bullet.

After he decided not to pull the trigger that one more time, he’d put the gun down and started crying. Staring at the picture of his kids. Watching the sunrise. Crying like a goddamn baby.

He’d gone upstairs to Rita. Gotten down on his knees beside the bed and begged her to take him back. Said how sorry he was and how he’d never hit her again. She said she thought he was sick. Crazy in the head. She’d made him swear to go to church and talk to Father Menendez about whatever it was that was wrong with him. He’d wanted to crawl in bed with her so bad he’d said yes.

And here he was, just like he promised.

“Father, I’m afraid I’ve done a terrible thing,” Gomez said in the confession booth. “I don’t know if treason is a mortal sin or not, but it’s a bitch all right—sorry, I didn’t mean to say that word—it’s a real bad thing, I know that.”

“Tell me your sins,” the priest said.

For about half a minute, he actually thought he was going to be doing just that. And that’s when he forgot about the bear with the bomb in his belly and thought about the million dollars again.

“Sorry, Father, I guess I’m not feeling all that great right now,” he said. “I’ll catch you later.”

He stood up and left the confessional, hurried out of the church, and got in his broiling car.

Christ, he could use a cold one, he thought, starting the Yugo. He’d seen a cool Corvette ad in one of his magazines. Showed a guy in a red ’Vette, and in big type it said, “Know that warm feeling of belonging you have owning a Yugo? We don’t either.”

29

“You say you know the name of the murderer?” Congreve said, staring at Stubbs Witherspoon in disbelief.

The elderly gentleman had returned to the table with an ancient cardboard box containing the Hawke file. He removed the cover and pulled out a pale blue folder.

“No. I said I know the name of the man responsible for the murders, Chief Congreve,” Witherspoon said. “I will come to that. Please bear with me.”

The old man put his hand on the blue folder. “These are the crime-scene photographs,” he said. “Before I show them to you, could you indulge me a moment? I’m a little curious about Scotland Yard’s interest in a thirty-year-old murder case.”

“Of course. I should have explained that earlier. Have you ever heard the name Alexander Hawke?” Congreve asked.

“Yes. That was the child’s name. The sole witness,” Witherspoon replied. “The husband was Alexander. An English lord. The wife, of course, was Catherine, although everyone called her Kitty. A famous actress. She was one of the truly great beauties of that era. An American, from the south. New Orleans, I believe.”

“Yes, it was a famous marriage on both sides of the Atlantic. The sole issue of that marriage is my employer as of this moment. I met young Alex Hawke over twenty years ago. A famous jewel robber was holed up down on one of the Cha

“So the reason for your interest in the case is personal?” Witherspoon asked.

“Entirely,” Congreve said. “I should explain that I am mostly retired at this point. Although I do maintain an office in the Special Branch, I work, as I said, primarily on assignments for Alex Hawke himself. As does Inspector Sutherland here, who is on loan from Scotland Yard.”

“So, Mr. Hawke has decided to reopen the issue of his parents’ murders?”

“No! Alex Hawke has no idea I’m even looking into this. In fact, he has no memory of the actual murders—”

“Which he witnessed,” said Witherspoon, shaking his head sadly. He poured each of them some more lemonade.

“Which he witnessed,” Congreve said. “He has those memories buried very deeply in his mind. He has, in effect, erected a wall of denial around them. He never, ever refers to that terrifying chapter in his life. But, I think it haunts him to this day. In fact, I know it does. It is a source of enormous pain.”

“You want to exorcise your friend Alexander Hawke’s old ghosts, Chief Congreve?” Witherspoon asked.

“I’d like very much to somehow put his mind at rest, yes,” Congreve said. “That’s why we’re here in Nassau. If we could solve this thing, even bring the murderers to justice, it might offer him a bit of peace.”

“I see.”

“You should probably know that Alex Hawke is one of the wealthiest men on earth,” Ross said. “He controls a vast business empire. You may have heard the name of the holding company. Blackhawke Industries.”

“They own a shipping company based here in Nassau, I believe,” Witherspoon said.

“Not to mention the banks and brokerages,” Congreve said. “Blackhawke’s central operations are run out of London, but the reach is worldwide. Because of this, he has tremendous contacts at the highest levels of every major corporation and many governments.”

“In recent years,” Congreve added, “he has been doing a lot of work with both the British and American governments. Because of who he is and whom he knows, he has been invaluable to both governments in certain delicate matters.”

“One such mission for the Americans has brought us to your beautiful islands, Mr. Witherspoon,” Ross said. “But my superior and I are here in Nassau completely unofficially. We are looking into these murders on our own.”

“I think I understand now. Thank you,” Witherspoon said, holding the blue folder in his hand as if he were unsure about sharing it.

“We are eager to hear what you have to say,” Ross said.

“Well. I told you that I know the name of the man responsible for the murders. That is true. His name is revealed in these photographs.” Witherspoon slid the file across the table to Congreve.

Only the birds outside and the whir of the fan could be heard in the room. The minutes stretched out as Congreve studied each black-and-white photograph and then handed it to Sutherland, who did the same.

The old policeman rose from his rocker and crossed the room to stand at the window. He had no need to see the photographs again. He had been first to board the yacht when it arrived in the harbor. The first police officer to view the crime scene. The image of that stifling room and what horrors lay inside it would be engraved in his mind forever.

A small, bright green bird alighted in the yellow hibiscus outside his window. The bird turned its darting glance this way and that, finally settling its tiny black eyes on the old man standing in the window. Stubbs Witherspoon willed the vision of the little bird to drive the other vision from his mind. It almost worked.