A Penny for the Hangman (7 page)

“
!Hola¡,
Yolanda,” he said.

She tried to smile, but she avoided looking directly into the cold blue eyes by glancing at the gas pump readout beside the register and picking up the fax paper. She always seemed to focus on his chin, unable to lift her gaze any higher. “Good afternoon, Mr. Brown. This just came for you. With the gas, that’ll be thirty-two dollars.”

He nodded and pulled his wallet from the back pocket of his jeans. He handed her an extra dollar and asked for quarters. She made the change and watched as he looked at Frank’s typewritten message. He read it twice through, his frown deepening, then he wandered over toward the front window, gazing off at the sunset, lost in thought.

“So,” he murmured, staring out, “the game begins.”

He turned abruptly and headed over to the pay phone in the corner. It wasn’t in a booth or anything so elaborate as that, just an ancient coin-op mounted on the wall. Nobody used it much anymore, only Mr. Brown. Everyone else had cells, even the native tribes in the local pueblos. Mr. Brown didn’t seem to have credit cards, come to think of it; he always paid cash here at Papa V.’s Trading Post. He had no friends that she knew of. She wondered if he had a driver’s license or even registration for his Jeep. Hell, she wondered if his name was really Mr. Brown. Other than the fact that he was standing over there, he might easily not exist at all. But he’d been living here, just outside Taos, since Jorge was a child, long before she came up from Mexico and married into the family, and Papa V. called him their best customer, so she was always polite to him.

Now he dropped coins into the slot and punched in a number. Yolanda busied herself with arranging the candy display and the spin rack of postcards on the counter, pretending not to listen while straining to hear every word. He was talking to an airline, from the sound of it, asking about flights to the Virgin Islands. Connecting flights, Santa Fe to Dallas/Fort Worth to Miami to St. Thomas. Nothing tomorrow, apparently, but they had Thursday. Yes, he said, yes, he wanted the earliest available. First class? Fine, whatever.

Then he did the most extraordinary thing. He reached into his wallet and produced a credit card. A credit card! He read off the number into the phone. Yolanda stared over at him, then quickly went back to the postcards. So, she’d been wrong about him after all.

But the big surprise occurred after he’d hung up the phone. Before he left, he went over to the refrigerator unit and got a can of Coke. He came back to the counter, and Yolanda rang him up. He stood there a moment, regarding her, and then he said, “When are you due?”

She blushed and raised a hand to her swelling midsection. She hadn’t expected him to notice her condition. Women always mentioned it—the two tourist girls a few minutes ago had been eager for all the details and full of nutrition advice and labor stories and the latest styles of maternity clothing—but men usually weren’t interested in such things.

“July,” she whispered, lifting her gaze at last to meet the cold blue eyes. To her amazement, he smiled, and the gruff, burnt-out look was briefly replaced by something softer.

“Felicitac
iones,”
he said.

“Gracias,”
she replied.

The familiar scowl was back in place as he strode out the door, got into his dusty Jeep, and drove away. Yolanda felt her body relax, as it always did when he left the store, releasing the nervous tension his presence created. But today she stared after him until the Jeep was out of sight down the highway, reassessing him, wondering just who in the world this Mr. Brown really was.

From
Virgin Cop: My Life with the VIPD
by Joshua L. Faison (Random House, 1982)

After the sentencing, Rodney Harper and Wulfgar Anderman remained in custody at Fort Christian for another month while arrangements were made with medium-security prisons in Florida and North Carolina. I was part of the contingent that took them to the mainland on Thursday, May 28, 1959, two days after Rodney Harper’s sixteenth birthday. We handed them to the authorities at the Miami airport and returned to St. Thomas.

Hannah Vernon, the beautiful social worker, made the trip with us. When she said goodbye to them in Miami, Rodney did not reply or even acknowledge her as he was shepherded off to the plane to North Carolina. Wulfgar nodded to her, and he even smiled briefly before being led away to the connecting flight to Tallahassee. The two boys hadn’t spoken to each other during the flight, nor did they say goodbye to each other when they parted. They simply went their separate ways.

On the return flight to the island I contrived to sit beside Miss Vernon, and by the time we landed she had promised to have dinner with me.

Joshua Faison, Junior, was appropriately named: He was a younger version of his father. The resemblance was not merely physical but in his easy grace and friendly manner. He arrived in the restaurant as Karen and the retired lieutenant were finishing dessert, and his entrance was greeted with smiles and waves from many of the diners. Small island, Karen thought as he made his way over to their table.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lieutenant,” Karen said as they shook hands.

“Hello, Ms. Tyler. Thank you for entertaining my father. He was really looking forward to this evening.”

“So was I,” she replied, settling the bill as the younger man helped his father to rise and retrieve his cane. They made their way up the stairs to the hillside road. When they reached it and the elder Mr. Faison was ensconced in the passenger seat of his son’s car, with many repeated thanks for the dinner, the current lieutenant turned to her.

“Allow me to walk you to your car, Ms. Tyler.”

“Karen,” she said automatically.

He smiled. “Then you must call me Junior.” They walked up the road lined with the parked cars of the other diners, and Karen looked out at the stunning nighttime view, a thousand lights under a thousand stars.

“Dad told me a little about your articles,” he said as they arrived at her rental car. “Something about a witness to the Harper/And
erman business. Does this have to do with that movie that opens Friday?”

“Yes,” she said. “Is it opening here as well?”

He nodded grimly. “You’d better believe it! The Council on the Arts is having a benefit premiere party. Dad will be there, along with some people who worked on the film. Extras in crowd scenes, mostly, but they hired a few local actors to play small roles. They even had a young native guy playing Dad.”

“Yes,” Karen said. “I saw a trade screening in New York two weeks ago. Your ‘dad’ is in several scenes, and he’s very good. It’s a remarkable movie.”

“Hmm. Well, I was glad when they’d finished filming—it was a nightmare, all those lights and cameras being lugged up and down these hills, and helicopters for aerial shots. Not to mention the curious locals and tourists who followed them everywhere, and the infernal press—begging your pardon.”

Karen was curious. “I get the impression you don’t approve of the movie.”

Lieutenant Faison shrugged his wide shoulders. “It’s not a question of that. The movie might actually boost tourism. Lots of great footage of the island, like an expensive travelogue. But that case still affects Dad. He got that limp in a shootout with a nineteen-year-old drug smuggler. He killed the kid, and it bothered him, but even that didn’t haunt him like Harper/And
erman. I don’t like him talking about it. I mean, tonight with you was fine, but sometimes he can get excited when the subject comes up, and at his age—”

“Of course,” Karen said quickly, suppressing a brief pang of guilt. Then she grinned. “But it
was
the way your parents met, after all, so…”

He surprised her by uttering a deep, hearty laugh. “Oh yes, don’t I just know that! Isn’t it something? They met on the case, and they were married a year later, then I came along. If it weren’t for those two boys, I wouldn’t be here. Still…” His smile disappeared as he trailed off, watching as she got into the car. He shut the door for her. As she started the engine, he leaned down to the window and said, “This witness, or whoever it is—you just be careful, okay?” He produced a card and handed it to her. “Let me know if you need anything.”

Karen glanced at the card in her hand. It was his official police card, with phone numbers and email addresses. She dropped it into her purse. The lieutenant was clearly conveying an unspoken message, something she’d do well to remember. Despite his momentary lack of a uniform, this man was a cop, a highly placed member of the VIPD. If her unknown host turned out to be Harper or Anderman, she’d be breaking the law simply by meeting with him and not disclosing his presence on the island. But, as a journalist, she’d be compelled to protect her source. She and the lieutenant both knew this, and, all things considered, he was being very polite about it.

“Thank you, Junior,” she said. “I’ll be careful. And I enjoyed talking with your father. He’s a wonderful man.”

“That he is,” he said. “Enjoy your stay in the Islands.”

Karen turned the car around to head back the way she’d come. As she passed the hotel, she waved to Mr. Faison, Senior—Jos
h—waiting for his son in the other car. He waved back. She drove down the mountain, through Charlotte Amalie, and around the waterfront toward her own hotel. On the way, she passed by the entrance pillars to the most notorious house on the island. The brass plaque with the word
Tamarind
gleamed briefly in the headlights, then vanished in the ensuing darkness.

M
AY 29, 1958

I am different from other people. I’ve always known that, I suppose. I’m not your average human being, not by a wide mile. I’m smarter, faster, better. We took IQ tests in school last year. I wasn’t supposed to know the results, of course, but they sent copies around to the faculty, and Mrs. Gould’s desk drawer is a cinch to open, lock or no lock.

The entire school, all 73 of us, were listed, top result to bottom, and you can guess who was at the top. Wulf’s name was right under mine, natch. “Genius” is officially listed as 150, and beside my name it read “180++.” Wulf got an actual number: 165. The girl below him, Mindy Thayer, was 136, and the next one after her was 128 (that ugly Darlene Provall). Everyone else came after that. I wasn’t surprised to see that Jake French and Claude Morley, the creeps who always bother us, were at the bottom. Jake thinks he’s so cool, but he’s exactly 22 points above “moron.” I know Mom and Dad were told because they keep staring at me and shaking their heads. They must have had some smart forebears way back in their family trees because they’re both morons.

The Plan has taken over my every waking moment, and at night I dream of it. One single, perfect act—to start with, anyway…

“Karen Tyler?”

“Yes?”

“Don Price,
Daily News
.”

“Oh yes. Hello.”

“Hi.”

Karen stared up at the man from the couch in the hotel lobby. She could feel a slow blush stealing across her face, and she tried to conceal it with a bright smile. But she was disconcerted; she’d assumed the photographer would be a native, but this man was a tall, lanky, dark-haired Caucasian, handsome in a lupine sort of way. He rather towered as he smiled down at her. He was wearing baggy gray cargo pants, sneakers, and a brand-new white T-shirt emblazoned on the front with a message in bold black letters:
i slept on a virgin (island)
. Witty. He had what looked to be a pack of cigarettes and a pair of sunglasses in the pocket of the shirt, and a small, expensive-looking camera hung from a strap around his neck. She gestured toward the couch beside her, and he sat.

She looked at her watch: 11:45. “We have a few minutes to wait, so I can tell you what I need this afternoon. A few shots of the subject and maybe a few shots of his home, if he consents to it. To tell you the truth, I’m not even certain he’ll allow you to photograph
him
. He’s a very private man. But try to get shots anyway. I assume you know how to do that without his knowledge, if necessary.” She gestured toward the camera. “Is that all your equipment?”

“Sure. It’s all I need. Best camera on the market—for this kind of work.” Don Price grinned, and the flash of teeth told her that surreptitious surveillance was something he enjoyed. He was apparently what her friend Gwen would call an “operator.” Karen wasn’t at all sure she was going to like him. Well, so be it, she thought, as long as he does his job….

They fell into an uncomfortable silence, and Karen leaned back on the couch and kept an eye on the front entrance, glancing over at her companion every now and then with a brief, empty smile. She wondered if she should be attempting to make small talk with him, then decided it wasn’t necessary. She didn’t mind his silence—quite the contrary. But one question did occur to her:
If you live here, in the sun-and-fun capital of the world, why are you so pale?
Glancing at him again, she thought better of asking it.

For his part, Don Price didn’t seem at all curious as to where they were going this afternoon. In that way, he reminded her of all the photographers she’d worked with at the magazine. Silent observers, most of them, always setting up the next shot in their minds, framing it, checking light levels and shutter speeds.

She’d spoken with Jim on the phone last night, asking him for advice on what she should wear to the interview. He’d laughed.
“Demure young journalist meets tropical climate”
—those had been his words. Karen glanced down at her short-sleeved, pale blue cotton blouse and slim-fit jeans over new underwear, with white sport socks and sneakers. Neat and sensible, plain and simple. She had a digital recorder in her shoulder bag with her cell phone, but after some thought, she’d left her laptop in her room. It would be enough to record him, maybe take some pen-and-paper notes, and type it all up tonight when she returned to the hotel. This was her usual procedure with face-to-face interviews.

The sudden shadow falling on her brought her out of her reverie, back to the hotel lobby. She and Don Price looked up to see a big man standing before them. Just over six feet tall, he was powerfully built, thick and muscular. He was dark-haired, bearded, and deeply tanned, and his dark eyes were widely spaced above his wide nose. There was little indication where his neck ended and his head began. She guessed he was in his mid-fifties, but it was hard to tell; there was something oddly youthful about him. The massive quality of his body was tempered by his clothing—j
eans, sneakers, and a loud Hawaiian shirt festooned with palm fronds—and by the wide smile as he leaned down to her.

“Ms. Tyler? I’m Carl Graves. Are you ready to go?”

“Yes, I’m ready,” she replied. “This is Don Price, from the
Daily News
. He’s coming, too.”

The man glanced over at Don Price, noting the camera, and nodded. He extended a meaty hand, and the two men shook.

“Well, we’re off,” Graves said. “Your host is waiting.”

“And who is our host?” Karen asked as she picked up her shoulder bag and followed him across the lobby.

The big man smiled.

“You’ll see,” he said.

Rodney Harper’s Diary

J
UNE 3, 1958

The Hit List

L
UCINDA
F
RANCES
L
AWSON
H
ARPER
—Queen Lucy of Tamarind, so fancy in her Coco Chanel dresses and Mainbocher gowns and Cartier diamonds and White Shoulders perfume, with her daddy the Boston banker and her mother the opera singer and her great-great-great-great-grandfather who came over on the
MAYFLOWER
that I’m so sick of hearing about. She’s crazy about Toby, getting him ready for his graduation in 3 weeks and his first semester at Haaahhhvahd in September, and she went to Radcliffe, Radcliffe, RADCLIFFE, don’t you know. She hasn’t said 2 words to me in I don’t know how long, and she’s half crocked all the time. Sometimes she falls asleep at the dinner table. Queen Lucy, long may she reign! Parasite. No wonder Dad’s laying Mrs. Anderman. And speaking of Dad:

T
OBIAS
E
DWARD
H
ARPER
—the King of Tamarind. Ha-ha-ha! More like the knave, stealing the tarts. That tart, Mrs. Anderman, for instance. He’s been laying her for years now, and Mom and Dr. Anderman don’t even know about it. But I do, and so does Wulfie. We saw them once; we watched them through the window at Wulf’s house. My father struts around this island, buying and selling everything in sight, like he really is a king. Harper Real Estate, “Building Tomorrow Today!” That’s what the ads say in the
Home Journal.
And if Mom’s crazy about Toby, he’s even crazier. Toby this and Toby that and why can’t Roddy be like Toby???? I’ve told them a million times not to call me Roddy; I REALLY hate that. Except when Wulf calls me that. That’s okay. If Mom has said 2 words to me, Dad’s said, like, ½ a word. “Humph.” That’s what it sounds like he says whenever I say hi to him. He doesn’t even look up from the newspaper. Then he runs off to buy and sell properties, or to get crocked and lay Mrs. Anderman, whose full name is:

H
JORDIS
C
HRISTINA
O
LAND
A
NDERMAN
—the Mistress of Danemann Haus. I ask you, what kind of a name is HJORDIS, for God’s sake? Sounds like a racehorse. I’ll say this for her: She’s gorgeous. Very, very beautiful, just like Wulf. Tall and blond and golden-skinned. She’s always polite to me, but she’s being a whore with Dad, so I hate her, and Wulf has a real, real, real reason to hate her. He thinks she knows all about what’s going on in her house, and she’s been looking the other way for years. Which brings us to the last name on the list:

F
ELIX
G
RIGORY
A
NDERMAN
—the Doctor. He’s been our family’s doctor since—well, he delivered me back in ’43. I was his first delivery, as he always reminds everyone when he’s drunk, which is most of the time. Wulf used to be crazy about him but now hates him. It isn’t because of what he gets up to with Dr. Stevens from the hospital and Mr. Bertram the hairstylist downtown, or even the navy sailors and the native boys. What Wulf hates is what he’s been doing to him for the last 2 years, once a month or so, always when he’s drunk.

These are the four people I hate most in all the world.

Dinnertime. More later.

Officer Rick “Brick” Wall of the Virgin Islands Police Department sat in his unmarked Ford sedan in the crowded parking lot of the Marriott Frenchman’s Reef hotel, watching the gray Chevy Cavalier. On the seat beside him was a photo of the woman he was to watch for, Karen Tyler. Lieutenant Faison’s instructions had been clear: If
this
woman got into
that
car, Officer Brick was to follow, observe, and report her actions. Brick didn’t want to disappoint Lieutenant Faison, who was also his cousin by marriage.

The woman in the photo was very pretty. She had a nice smile. No, Brick wouldn’t miss this vision if she came out of the hotel and got into her car. This was going to be an easy assignment, and he wondered if it would lead to other, more exciting ones. Brick was bucking for sergeant….

The hotel was busy, with people constantly arriving and leaving in cars and tour buses, but he kept his eyes glued to that car. He made a point of not being too distracted by the crowd piling into a bus or the young honeymoon couple emerging from a taxi or two dark-haired men and a blond woman getting into a Land Rover on the far side of the lot and pulling away. Oh no, that Cavalier wasn’t going
anywhere
without Officer Rick “Brick” Wall in hot pursuit.

Smiling to himself and dreaming of his eventual promotion, he settled in for a long wait.

Rodney Harper’s Diary

J
UNE 5, 1958

I still haven’t told Wulf. I almost did today at the Secret Place, over the chessboard, but I decided to wait a bit longer. We played two games, and I won both times, as usual. Poor Wulfie. He just doesn’t have a real feel for chess.

I made the board myself two years ago, and all the pieces, too. It is supremely satisfying to play chess with my own creations. I think I love chess more than anything else. It takes possession of my brain, shutting out everything else, all extraneous noise and light and stimulus. It is all about the moves and strategies, a single, perfect thing on which to focus. It is thought and reason and logic magnified, logic times ten, logic as only such as I can experience and appreciate it.

The Land Rover followed the same route that Karen had taken yesterday, past rows of condo units near the hotel, around the ravine, and up the steep incline to the hilltop crossroads. On their left was the now-familiar entrance to Tamarind, and for one tense moment she wondered if Mr. Graves was going to turn in there. Was the interview going to be conducted at the scene of the crime?

Of course not, she assured herself as the car turned in the opposite direction. They proceeded up another winding road lined with well-appointed houses. She remembered the map she’d studied yesterday, deciding that this must be the section called Flag Hill. They crowned a rise and descended sharply, past the entrance to a school and turnoffs to various hotels.

“Excuse me,” Mr. Graves said, reaching in front of her and opening the glove compartment. He withdrew a pair of sunglasses and put them on. Karen looked down at the open compartment, and her gaze fastened on a white envelope that lay inside it. She noted the address on the front:
Mr. T. H. Huxley,
followed by a post office box number,
St. Thomas, VI 00802
. She glanced at the return address:
Franklin T. Macy Investigat
ions, 547 W. 32nd Street, Suite 412, New York, NY 10001
. Macy, she thought, like the department store. She was wondering what business Mr. Huxley—that name again!—would have with a private investigator in New York when Mr. Graves closed the glove compartment.