Kingston Noir (27 page)

“Wa’ppun?” the commissioner growled, as we met him outside the Dutty Tower. “Where’s the girl?”

“Have you ever heard of Fibonacci?” Proof asked.

“Is that the perp?”

“Not exactly. Fibonacci numbers were named after the Italian merchant Leonardo Fibonacci of Pisa—”

“A wad di rassclaat yuh a chat bout?” the commissioner interrupted. “I read your file, mon!”

Proof just looked at him.

Right there, in the rain, the commissioner let my brother have it. As I listened, I grew enraged, and two of his men had to hold me back. The commissioner had grown suspicious of how well Proof and I had worked together, and had quickly speedread everything the department had on him. He knew now that we were brothers. He also knew about the robbery that took our parents’ lives. I had removed mention of it from my records, and I never talked about it at work. I didn’t want armchair psychologists to try to use it to figure me out—though, if I’m being honest, maybe it explains a lot about my life. It had been raining that night too. Proof had just been accepted to Harvard, and we were headed to a restaurant on Braemar Avenue to celebrate. We needed a little cash, but none of us took note of the man who slipped into the ATM with us. I don’t even recall his face—I only remember the gun. Proof had been standing at the machine. The man ordered him twice to clear his account. After the third time, the man fired two shots.

The commissioner laughed. “Island Einstein, dem call you. Genius of Jamrock. But when tief kill your parents, you couldn’t remember your own ATM code! Now stop pretending you’re better than us and tell me: where is the girl?”

Proof smiled placidly, betraying none of the emotions he may have buried in his heart.

“The Fibonacci sequence begins with 0 and I, and each subsequent number is the sum of the previous two,” Proof continued, as if he’d never been interrupted. “My brother’s investigation led us to a room. On the wall was written a Fibonacci sequence in Roman numerals. One entry was missing: 13. I believe Soledad is at a Trench Town address that begins with that number.”

“That could be dozens of addresses!” the commissioner blustered. “Naa mek mi vex, mon! Is this some sort of joke?”

Proof smiled again. “Mi naa jesta.”

An army of policemen descended on Trench Town. I had thought the best way to proceed was to keep things quiet, but I was overruled by the commissioner, who wanted to move ahead with all deliberate speed. He also relieved me of my duties on the investigation; I could see by the glint in his eyes that he hoped to gain favor with the PM when the girl was found, the case was solved, and tourists everywhere on the island could continue tanning themselves in blissful ignorance.

I offered to give Proof a ride home to wherever it was in Trench Town that he lived, but he didn’t answer me or even meet my gaze. He was somewhere deep within himself, his eyes staring at a ghost ship far out to sea.

“Let’s not lose touch again, okay?” I pleaded. “Can you give me an address, an e-mail, something?”

Proof was surrounded by Beethoven’s silence, deaf to the world, hearing only his own music. He wandered off, barefoot, down the street, away from the lights and the sirens. “Mi dun d’weet!”

So that was it. After years apart, and my younger brother, having solved the case, was strolling back out of Babylon and exiting my life.

But why had he helped the police—why had he helped me—in the first place?

I got out of my Fiat and followed Proof on foot.

If some sort of back-to-Africa math cult had kidnapped Soledad, possibly even murdered her, why were they using Roman numerals, Fibonacci numbers, and Lotka-Volterra equations? Why were they using pseudonyms and symbols from a French math group?

Still the rain kept falling.

Proof’s first stop was a curious one. He visited a jewelry store on the fringes of Trench Town. The place was a modest affair, more of a storefront than a full store, more of a pawnshop than a real shop. Through the window I could see my brother asking the man behind the counter some questions. The man disappeared into a back room for a second, and when he returned he was holding something—what appeared to be a prosthetic limb.

Proof exited the shop soon afterward. Setting off at a fast pace—I had to jog to keep up—he headed deep into Trench Town.

The rain would not let up. Darkness had enveloped Trench Town, and the only light spilled over from the illuminated windows of the houses. I watched as Proof strode down one deadend street and paused in front of a cottage at the end of it. The place was small—maybe a single room—and looked fairly abandoned. But I could see, inside, the faint glow of flashlights. Proof leaped over the waist-high white gate and walked up to the front door. He knocked, and it opened a crack. He seemed to be holding a brief conversation with whomever was on the other side. I don’t know what he said but it worked. The door opened wider, Proof stepped in, and it shut behind him.

I went down the street at a run. Who was inside the house? What web was Proof spinning?

I came to the front door. 45 Star-Apple Lane. I kicked open the door, took one step inside, and found myself knocked back into a wall by a blast of gunfire.

When I came to my senses, I didn’t know how much time had passed. The room was dark and a single window looked out on a full moon mostly hidden behind a cloud. The only sounds were the bark of a dog outside in the street, the intermittent rain on the roof, and my own labored breathing. I hadn’t gotten a clear look at whoever shot me, or the gun, or even the rest of the room.

Against the wall I could see a woman, dressed in black jeans and a dark T-shirt, sobbing and shivering and holding a shotgun in her hands.

Soledad Chin.

Then the moon disappeared and the room was black again.

“What’s going on?” I asked into the darkness.

Proof shushed me, and tugged at a makeshift bandage he had wrapped around my torso. “You’ve lost a lot of blood. Try not to move around.”

My side was throbbing with pain.

“I didn’t mean to shoot you,” Soledad cried.

“That’s comforting,” I groaned.

“She thought you were one of Lil Croc’s men,” Proof explained.

“I don’t understand any of this,” I said. “Why are you here?”

Proof offered a grim smile. “I knew from the start the math cult was a ruse. But I had to wait until I could sidetrack the police. I knew that if Soledad and Aziz were on the run, they certainly didn’t want the law catching up to them. We have worries worse than the police now.”

Soledad began to sob loudly, but then pulled herself together. “Lil Croc is coming.”

“How does he know where we are?” I asked.

Soledad wiped her face with her T-shirt. “I left Kingston because Lil Croc’s men killed my aunt, threatened my family—he wanted me to join his crazy track team. I told Albert everything one night.” As she spoke, she unconsciously rubbed her belly.

“You’re pregnant?” I asked.

She nodded. “Albert told me we were going to be together. He had a plan.”

I turned to Proof: “How did you know where to find them?”

“His left stump was rubbed raw—clearly he had recently worn a prosthetic device,” Proof answered. “There was only one pawn shop in the area that had recently purchased a limb. I found out from the owner that Aziz had left an address, because he wanted to be given a chance to buy it back in case a buyer put in an offer. It’s hard to part with an arm—even a fake one.”

“We wanted to disappear for a year,” Soledad said. “I was getting pressure from everywhere—the cops, the gangs, my sponsors. Albert said I should fake my death. He came up with a crazy math conspiracy to occupy everyone until we got away. He patched it all together.”

“I thought he was a history major,” I interjected.

“History of mathematics,” Proof broke in. “Judging by his textbooks.”

Soledad continued: “The arm gave us the money we needed to lay low. Albert figured staying at my aunt’s house would be the last place anyone would look. He went back to the Pegasus so nobody would connect us, and so he could help throw the cops off track.”

I was about to ask where the hell Aziz was now, when the moon peeked out and answered the question for me.

I could now see that I was lying next to a body—it was Albert Aziz. His flowing Afghan shirt was dark with blood. I jerked back with surprise. Soledad began to cry once more; Proof put an arm around her.

“Lil Croc had men watching the Pegasus,” Proof said to me. “One of them followed Albert here and shot him as he entered. He’ll no doubt be back with reinforcements.”

“Then what are we doing here?” I struggled to get to my feet but my side was in too much pain. I slid back to the ground.

“We’re not going anywhere,” Proof said. “You’re in no condition to travel.”

“Can’t we call for help?” I said.

“Soledad ditched her cell so she couldn’t be tracked. Your cell was destroyed when she shot you. And I haven’t carried a phone since I started living in Trench Town. But we have other options.”

Soledad peered out the window. “They’re coming.”

The moon disappeared again and the room was in shadow.

“We’ve only got a few seconds of complete darkness,” Proof told Soledad. “We’re going to stay here and distract them.”

Soledad looked at him for an explanation.

“You have to make a break for it,” Proof said. “Even if they take us out, at least you’ll be safe. That’s the most important thing. I want you to keep on running until you see a cop or a police station. Then you ask for the commissioner, you understand me? He’ll be so embarrassed that his search failed, he’ll send the whole department to save us.”

Soledad wiped the tears off her cheeks and nodded. “I’m out of bullets,” she said.

I handed her my Glock; she smiled at me and rested her empty shotgun against the wall.

“I want to see gold medal speed, you hear?” I said. “Silver will get us killed. Run quick noh!”

Gun in hand, Soledad dashed out of the door and into the shadows.

After a few moments, the moon lit up the neighborhood again. Every shingled roof, every wattle wall, every picket fence was cast in cold white illumination.

I crawled into a corner that was furthest from the window. Three shadows peeked in—they’d be breaking into the shack soon.

“Now I wish I had that gun,” I moaned.

“I wish I had a spliff,” Proof replied.

The busted door flew open. Two of Lil Croc’s tattooed men stood in the doorway, guns in one hand, flashlights in the other.

Proof moved as quickly as a spider. He disarmed the first two intruders with a Bangaran kick and a flip, but three posse members rushed into the room and pinned him down.

Then, through the doorway, stepped Lil Croc.

Lil Croc was a fireplug of a man—steely and short. He was bare-chested and massively muscled, with a huge tattoo of a crocodile winding around his torso, up his neck, and covering his face, merging his head with that of the reptile.

Lil Croc stomped one foot.

Two of his men raised their guns, one aimed at Proof, the other at me. Moonlight glinted off the metal of their weapons.

Acting on reflex, I extended my hands, palms out, waiting for the shot.

Lil Croc stopped. He stared, wide-eyed, at one of my hands.

As speedily as he had entered, Lil Croc turned and ran out of the cottage, his posse close behind him. Soon all the shadows were flying down the street, through the rain, and melting back into the urban darkness.

“Wha-what just happened?” I asked.

Proof grabbed my left hand, tracing with his finger the pyramid fringed by flame I had sketched in the center of my palm. The rain had blurred—but thankfully not erased—the symbol. “Apparently, there’s at least one person on this island who still believes in the Black Star Brotherhood,” Proof laughed. “Who born fi heng cyaan drown!”

I started to laugh too, but my ribs hurt too much. I had lost a lot of blood. The room was spinning—I didn’t have as long as I’d thought I did. The last thing I remember thinking that night is this: I hope Soledad is as fast as everyone says she is.

So, as you can see, readers of the
Gleaner
deserve to know the truth. The Soledad Chin case was extensively covered in the paper and hardly a word of it was true—especially the stories that detailed how the commissioner cracked the case. Much of the misunderstanding, of course, was my fault. The report I filed for the department left out several key elements of the narrative: Proof’s role in solving the crime, the identity of the suspect who shot me, and the fact that Soledad was still alive. After she made an anonymous call to the station house, and a patrol car took me to the hospital, Proof helped her disappear. Then he vanished as well and a
Gleaner
reporter went so far as to tweet that he was dead.

I had slipped my brother my e-mail address and he had promised to stay in touch—but, naturally, he did no such thing. Weeks went by and then months, holidays, birthdays, anniversaries, with nary a word. I looked for him in Trench Town, but heard nothing; stories came back to me about sightings, but nothing definite. He was a duppy.

A year later, long after I had unpacked the boxes in my fishbowl office (but wasn’t feeling any more at home), I received a tip from an informant that my brother had been spotted in a store buying sacks of sugar, red ribbons, and several small plastic cups. But nobody knew where he had gone after making the odd purchase.

None of it made sense to me either, until, driving home one night, I heard “Three Little Birds” on the radio of my Fiat. I continued driving straight over to Trench Town.

When I got to the seventh floor, a dozen hummingbirds buzzed around my head. Their numbers had increased—this had to be the place. I knocked on every entryway on the leaning hallway until finally, at room 721B, Proof came to the door. He was holding a narrow plastic cup with a red ribbon tied around it. Three doctor birds, attracted by the color, zipped around his hand, sipping at the sugar water in his cup.

“You don’t call, you don’t write …” I joked.

Proof didn’t seem surprised that I had found him. He yawned, put down the cup, and lit a spliff.