Bermuda Heat (17 page)

It yielded results. Jay, it turned out, was often on the police radar, mostly petty stuff, like shoplifting, public drunk and disorderly, but once for a more serious drug charge. His younger brother, Baker, looked clean. At least Chris couldn’t find any records for him. Neither did Imani, to his immense relief. He even checked out Cedarbridge, the high school both Baker and Jay had gone to. He found a web portal, which didn’t contain anything. He did find an alumni site. He dug into it and found all three of Joel’s children had graduated.

Chris delved deeper into the criminal angle. Jay really had quite a record. No wonder Joel had been concerned. Concerned enough to engage a total stranger to help him? Even if David was the man’s son, he was still a stranger, an unknown entity.

Chris studied what his probing had uncovered. A felony bust on someplace called Court Street that resulted in an eighteen-month stay at the Westgate prison facility. Joel must have been real impressed with that. In the short time he had known him, BeRMudA heAt
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Chris could see that Joel was a man on the straight and narrow.

A second narcotics bust had come not long after Jay was released from prison. This one was tossed on a technicality, no jail time.

It hadn’t taught him anything. In fact it looked like David’s younger half-brother was currently waiting for yet another sentencing on more drug charges. He was out on a bond, pending a court date. This time he’d not only been caught with a nice stash of meth, but he had also assaulted the officer who apprehended him. Even Chris, who knew nothing about the Bermuda legal system, had the feeling Jay might have run out of luck. He might be facing hard time on this beef, whatever constituted hard time in Bermuda.

Wednesday 1:15am Hamilton Police Station, Parliament Street,
Hamilton, Bermuda

After his phone call to Chris, MacClellan led David back to the interrogation room. They put a cup of tepid coffee on the table in front of him, and for the first time produced a tape recorder.

David glanced at the recorder, then across at MacClellan.

After recording the time, date and interview site, along with his name and full rank, MacClellan said, “Please state your full name and current address for the record.”

They went through it all again. Exhaustion rode David hard; it was a struggle to maintain his composure. The coffee, bad as it was, didn’t help. He knew that’s exactly what they wanted. Make him sweat and hope for a slip up. The interview took nearly two hours. David was blinking away sleep before it ended, and he could feel MacClellan’s energy increasing, its focus sharp and riveted on him, like a cadaver dog pawing through garbage for a corpse. He knew David was losing it, and it only made him press harder, hoping to widen the crack until the whole dam burst.

There was a knock at the door; MacClellan answered and returned to the table with a sheaf of papers. He skimmed through them, his lips pursed, not making eye contact with David.

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Finally he put the papers aside. Constable Lindstrom returned and David watched in dismay as he removed a pair of handcuffs from his belt.

“Please stand, Detective Laine,” MacClellan said. “You are under arrest for the murder of Joel Astwood Cameron. You are not obliged to say anything unless you wish to do so. Anything you do say will be taken down in writing and may be used in evidence.”

“Do you wish to say anything?” MacClellan asked.

David stood up. “Where are you taking me?”

“Westgate,” MacClellan said. “Where you’ll be held pending trial.”

“What’s your proof? I demand to see a lawyer—”

Lindstrom snicked the cuffs around David’s wrists, the metal cold against his bare skin.

“You’ll get your chance,” MacClellan said.

David resisted the instinctive desire to jerk away ashe fought to keep his voice steady. A rush of adrenaline swamped his exhaustion, leaving him lightheaded, but more alert. He would pay for that alertness later.

He tried again. “What about bail?”

“No bail,” MacClellan said. “Once you secure a lawyer you can proceed with a bond, if the courts let you.” His tone said he very much doubted that would happen.

“And when can I do that?”

They were jerking his chain. They’d run him around in circles until he gave something away they could use against him. Or maybe in his exhaustion he had already said something they took as guilt. Now they’d make him sweat in jail. It was an old cop trick. He’d played it too many times to count.

It was only midday when they exited the police station.

Lindstrom put David into the back of a squad car and slid into the front seat. MacClellan had gone back inside. The lights of BeRMudA heAt
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the station stared balefully down into the vehicle, only vanishing when Lindstrom turned onto Front Street and headed east, following the harbor around to Middle Road. From there they headed west, passing the road that would have taken him back to Aunt Nea’s and Chris, then turning onto Middle Road, past the Gibbs Hill lighthouse and its beacon of light sweeping the ocean, finally crossing tiny Somerset Bridge.

David recognized where they were—very near the Dockyard where the four of them had eaten a carefree lunch just the previous day. They turned off just before the Dockyard.

The prison was a modern, low slung structure beside an ancient building that looked like a medieval fortress.

“Casemates,” Lindstrom said. “The old prison. Be thankful you’re not going there.”

David caught a glimpse of ocean before they turned into the prison yard. In alarm, David saw a TV camera and several reporters who instantly surrounded the squad car, pressing against the still moving vehicle. It was eerily reminiscent of the horrible time when he and Chris had been hounded by reporters eager for blood during his outing and near death at the hands of the Carpet Killer. He wondered who had alerted the media. No doubt the murder of a local man by an American tourist was rich fodder for the local rags. Flash bulbs flared, and he instinctively ducked his head away from the light. Lindstrom guided him out of the vehicle and David kept his face averted as they passed the gauntlet of reporters who hurled questions at Lindstrom and himself.

“What is he being charged with, Constable?”

“Did you kill your father, David?”

They already knew his name. What else had they uncovered?

Their next question gave him the answer.

“Is it true you’re an LAPD homicide detective? Why would you kill your father? Did he find out you were gay? Did the local authorities know you were gay? Is it true you married your lover?

What did your father think about that?”

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David silently urged Lindstrom to get him out of the inquisitive eye of the reporters and out of sight, but the constable seemed to take a perverse pleasure in playing to the media.

He jerked on David’s arm, sending sharp pains down to his shackled wrists. “Come on, these are your fans. You don’t want to disappoint them, do you?”

Tension rippled across David’s back. His shoulders, held at an awkward angle by the cuffs, began to ache under the strain. He was glad to enter the prison compound. Lindstrom left him with a blue-shirted prison official, who signed him in and processed the paperwork that would see him a ward of Bermuda. Inside he was patted down, then divested of all his personal items: his watch, his wallet, his belt, the St. Michael’s medal Chris had given him last year, his LAPD class ring as well as the plain gold band Chris had put on his finger last year at their wedding. They also took his silk tie as though they were afraid he would despair and take his own life. His clothes were replaced with drab prison garb, which barely fit his large frame, and he was given a pair of scuffed slippers. Finally, they handed him a thin pillow and even thinner blanket, and took him down a dimly lit hallway that smelled of bleach, human sweat and boiled noodles.

He was led down the dank hall to a small cell that barely had room for the concrete slab and lidless toilet it contained. At least he was getting a single cell and wouldn’t have to face another inmate. That was SOP for any incarcerated law enforcement officer, whether or not it was necessary.

He didn’t turn when the guard shut the door behind him.

Footsteps echoed down the hall, until finally they faded away and David was left alone. He spread the blanket over the stone slab and dropped the pillow at the head of the “bed.” Then he sank down and stared up at the ceiling, stained with things he didn’t want to identify.

A distant voice rose in fury, shouting incomprehensible curses. Somewhere a heavy door banged shut. Then a silence more deafening than any noise fell.

Wednesday 5:40am Aunt Nea’s, Nea’s Alley, St. George’s Parish,
Bermuda

Chris climbed out of bed and stared balefully around the room. He glanced at the bedside clock, then at the phone. He remembered all too clearly Imani’s warning not to telephone. He had to wait until she called him, praying she wouldn’t regret her decision to help and leave him alone, without hope.

He got up and paced. He passed through the kitchen, but knew he couldn’t possibly eat. He pulled out the coffee pot and got out the coffee they had bought at the market their first day.

He drank two mugs before the phone rang.

He snatched it up. It was Imani.

“How are you holding up?” he asked her.

“I’m okay,” she said. “Wishing this was all a bad dream.”

“Trust me, I know what you mean. Thank you for believing me, for believing in David, Imani. You gotta believe this is a nightmare for both of us.”

“I know,” she said. “At least I think I do. Maybe I’m just a dumb, naive kid, but I can’t see David doing those horrible things. Did you hear from him?”

Chris rubbed his forehead, pinching the bridge of his nose, trying to ease a growing headache. “Yes,” he whispered. “He called last night.”

“How’s he holding up?”

“About as well as can be expected. He really needs a lawyer…”

“I think I can help. I talked to a friend of mine and she recommended a litigation attorney, Aidan Pitt.” She lowered her voice. “She didn’t think I should help you. They all think David k-killed my father… Oh, God Chris, what am I going to do?”

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“Help me, Imani. If they think David did it, what must the police think? It means they won’t look for the real killer.

Everyone loses, and the killer gets off… Please, please, give me his number.”

She rattled off a phone number. “He should be in the office in about an hour if you want to call then. He’s supposed to be one of the best.”

“Thank you.”

“I miss my dad.” Imani’s voice broke. “I want him back, but that’s not going to happen. I don’t want anyone else’s life to be ruined too.”

She was weeping softly now. Chris felt his own throat close up and he felt like joining her.

“I’m so sorry, Imani. Maybe if we hadn’t come none of this would have happened and—”

“Don’t say that! My dad wanted to meet his first born more than anything. He lived with so much regret when he found out David was alive; regret that he couldn’t have been there for him.

He loved the family he had, but he wanted his family whole again.

He would not have passed up this chance for anything.”

“Thank you, then. I’ll let you know what the lawyer says.”

“I’m going with you,” she said.

He stared at the phone. “Why?” was all he could ask.

“I’ll drive. I’ve got a scooter, too.” Her voice grew harder.

“Besides, if you are trying to pull one over on me, I want to be there when it falls in your face.”

He couldn’t blame her for distrusting him, but still her words hurt. He didn’t respond. What could he say?

“Besides,” she went on. “It’ll be quicker than trying to get a cab from your place. Call and make an appointment first thing.

Tell him it’s an emergency. I’ll get ready and leave right now.”

Chris stammered he would, then hung up. He rushed through a hot shower, trying to clear his head so he could make sense of BeRMudA heAt
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the last twenty-four hours. The he made a fresh pot of coffee and waited until he could call the attorney.

He got Pitt’s secretary. Chris didn’t give her time to stonewall him. He blurted out, “I have to speak to Mr. Pitt. It’s very urgent.”

“And what is the nature of your business?”

“We’re tourists from Los Angeles. My partner is an LAPD

homicide detective and he’s being accused of murder.”

Maybe it was the word murder that got her attention. Chris doubted Bermuda was exactly a hot bed for homicides.

A deep, mellifluous voice came on the phone. He had a British accent that made Chris think of smoking jackets and packs of English foxhounds baying on the moor.

“Yes? Whom am I speaking to?”

“Mr. Pitt? My name is Christopher Bellamere. My partner is Detective David Eric Laine of the LAPD. I think he’s about to be charged with the murder of his father.”

“You’d better start at the beginning,” Pitt said.

“I’d like to come down and see you. I can pay, whatever you want.”

“You aren’t much of a bargainer are you, Mr. Bellamere?

You tell most men you’ll pay anything and that’s what you’ll be charged.”

“I don’t care,” Chris said. He’d put himself in the poorhouse if it would help David. “Please, will you see me?”

“Is ten early enough?”

“I’ll be there.”

Wednesday 9:15am Aunt Nea’s, Nea’s Alley, St. George’s Parish,
Bermuda

Imani’s scooter trundled up the driveway over a half hour before Chris’s appointment. He was dressed in the most
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conservative suit he had packed, a gray pinstripe Brooks Brothers.

He met her at the head of the drive. She looked spiffy in a jade blouse and figure hugging culottes. She waved a greeting but didn’t get off the bike. Gingerly he straddled the pillion seat behind her. He’d only ridden a bike once before, during a brief, but incandescent fling he’d had with a guy who owned a Softail.