Jaden Skye: Death by Honeymoon

“It’s wrong,” said Cindy.

“I know.” He stood glued to the spot.

“Please,” said Cindy heatedly, “you must have the report.”

He nodded. “You promise that you will never tell them where it came from?”

“Never,” Cindy vowed.

She gave him her card with her email address.

He stared at it, thinking. Finally, he relented.

“I’ll email you. Pictures of the body, the medical examination, all of it,” he suddenly said.

“Oh my God, thank you. Please, send it as soon as you can.”

Without another word, he turned and hurried off to his car, jumped in, and sped off.

Cindy stood alone in the parking lot, wondering what to do next. She knew that she’d found what she’d come for, that she should just go quietly back home, wait for his email, and follow up with the FBI.

But a part of her could not let this go. She felt the need to press further, to hold everyone accountable. She could not just go quietly off into the night. That just wasn’t her anymore.

The local police had clearly known. They had covered up the report. She needed to know who was paying them off. And she wouldn’t rest until she did.

She knew it was foolish, but as she got back into her car, she knew that her next stop had to be the local police.

Cindy was on a roll. She felt invincible. She’d been right all along, and now she had proof. Blunt trauma to the head. How dare someone hurt Clint like that? If it was the last thing she did in life, she’d find out who—and get justice.

Her body felt filled with wild energy as she drove down the road about half a mile to the police station.

Emboldened, Cindy walked in, as though she belonged. A crime had been committed and she’d be damned if she wasn’t going to find out more.

“The Chief of Police,” she said to the sleepy guy at the front desk.

He looked up at her for a minute and grinned. “Aint here, honey.”

Cindy’s skin crawled . “It’s urgent. He’s expecting me.”

The guy laughed. “He’s not expecting anybody. In fact this isn’t even his office.”

“Then where is his office?”

“La Moya. His favorite restaurant. “

“Where’s la Moya?” Cindy asked.

The guy just shrugged.

Cindy moved closer to the desk, threateningly, “Look, this isn’t a game,” she said, her eyes flaring.

“Whoah, lady. Take it easy. Everyone knows la Moya’s two blocks down the road.”

Then he grinned again and closed his eyes. Cindy must have disturbed his nap.

Cindy got in the car and drove right to la Moya’s.

It was a fancy restaurant, on the water, with a huge outdoor patio, lined with palm trees. People sat for hours on the patio, eating and drinking rum. Reggae music played in the background.

“The Police Chief’s expecting me,” she told the tall, thin waiter who greeted her. “Where is he?”

The waiter pointed to a table in the front. A huge man sat there, leaning back in his chair, drinking beer and eating.

“That’s where he sits every day,” the waiter said.

She went straight over to the Police Chief’s table. “May I join you?”

He looked at her and laughed out loud. “Little tiger lady,” he said, amused. “Sit down.”

Cindy sat down opposite him. It was a beautiful spot, right near the water. How she wished Clint could be sitting here with her.

“Sorry to interrupt your lunch,” she said.

He laughed out loud again, guffawed. He was a huge, muscular guy with big jowls and bags under his eyes. His teeth were tiny and yellow.

“Nobody interrupts my lunch,” he said. “I eat all day long.”

He was eating chewy conch fritters and delicately grilled flying fish fillets, along with a bottle of Barbados’ brew, Banks beer. He stuffed a huge spoon of fritters into his mouth .

As she watched him eat, she let the rough, salty winds blow over her. It was so empowering to know that Clint had not died drowning, that she wasn’t crazy, that her suspicions had a basis in fact. And that all her efforts were leading somewhere real.

“What can I do for the little lady?” he swallowed his mouthful loudly.

“My name is Cindy Blaine,” she started.

It didn’t mean a thing to him.

“My husband’s name was Clint Blaine. He was killed in Barbados a short while ago.”

Still no recognition.

“Killed on his honeymoon,” Cindy continued, trying to get a flicker from him.

“Bad time to get killed,” he said with a little jeer. “Of course there’s no good time, but a honeymoon is about the worst of all.”

Cindy felt completely repelled.

“Or maybe it was really a good time?” he went on. “Maybe he died after he got the best, and didn’t have to go through the worst?”

Then he laughed again and stuffed more food into his mouth.

“I thought you might have heard of this case,” Cindy tried her hardest to be professional.

That made him laugh even louder. He was enjoying every moment with her.

“Who he was, or why he did it, I have no idea. This island isn’t forgiving,” he suddenly looked grim. “I hear about killers all day long. Killing is natural down here, animals and people, eating each other up.”

It was a horrible image. Cindy felt sick to her stomach.

“You know, lots of surfers come here and drown. People don’t talk about it, but it happens all the time. We’re used to it. These sweet, beautiful waves have a life of their own. You have to learn how to respect them, let them lead the way.”

“Do you remember the case at all?” Cindy would not be sidetracked .

“How can I remember every case? So many cases we cover here. “ He snorted. “To you the guy means something. To us, he’s food for the fish.”

Cindy blanched. There was no budging him in anyway .

“My husband was killed at the beach near El Barada Hotel.”

He chewed on his lip a second. “You a detective?” he said.

“I’m a wife.”

He barely heard what she said, put his fork down and looked out at the horizon, as if picturing the El Barada hotel.

“They like to blame the surf for every rotten thing that happens here on the island,” he declared. “Your report probably said, riptide did it. Now I happen to love riptides. There’s not one bad thing they can do to you. If you invade their territory, whose fault is it if you’re dead?”

“Clint understood the ocean. He was a powerful surfer.”

“Not powerful enough.”

He closed his eyes a moment, and he started chewing on his lip again.

“There’s plenty of ways to get yourself killed down here on the island. “

“I need information about the investigation,” she persisted.

“You don’t say? What kind of information?”

This was fun for him, a distraction in the afternoon. He was dangling her as though she were a little fish.

“Who found the body, who were the witnesses? It’s strange that we didn’t hear anything about them.”

He made a sour face then, as if his lunch were repeating on him.

“To Americans everything is strange. Down here on the islands, everything is beautiful. Seems like you think you know a lot. But I’ll tell you something you never thought of - someone dies because they’re supposed to. If we say case closed, that’s what it means. Go take up your grievance with God, not me.”

“I’m not coming to you with a grievance,” Cindy said. “I need to have some questions answered.”

His big head bobbed up and down. “There are people who cannot accept reality. They’ll fight it down to the last minute. Even get themselves killed doing it. I hope that’s not you, tiger lady.”

He pushed his plate back and motioned to the waiter. “Bring me another plate, another beer, and bring the same for the lady.”