Tim Green - False Convictions

“Bottle is fine,” she said.

“I like that.”

He handed her one and sat back down. They touched bottles across the aisle, each taking a mouthful and savoring the flavor.

“So,” she said, “what’s this place you’ve got us at?”

“Villa Oasis? You’ll love it. Right on Grace Bay. The sun sets like a slice of tomato on a warm breeze. Water clear as the air and so blue it looks like a Disney creation.”

The plane tilted and began its downward slide.

“Already?” Casey asked.

Graham raised his bottle, winked, and took a swallow.

Casey enjoyed the way a uniformed woman with a gold badge shuttled them right through customs while the people getting off a commercial airliner queued up like cattle in cargo shorts and flowered shirts. A jeep waited for them just outside the terminal with its engine running and a man in a panama hat standing guard.

“No limo?” Casey asked.

Graham’s face fell and he said, “You didn’t want one, did you?”

“I’m kidding,” she said, grabbing the roll bar and climbing into the passenger seat. “It’s perfect.”

“That’s what I thought.”

Two men loaded their bags into the back. Graham put the jeep into gear and they raced off. He took the curves and hills with the familiarity of a native, honking when he passed and waving in a friendly way. Casey didn’t catch her breath until they pulled down the private drive and rolled to a stop in front of a broad white villa with a clay tile roof nestled into a thicket of sea pines and palm trees. The dust settled and a dark man in white linen hurried down the steps, greeting Graham and introducing himself to Casey as Charles. Charles took their luggage and led them into the house.

The sun had already nestled itself into the puffy clouds on the horizon, and still the brilliance of the blue water shone like a gem beyond the white beach. Casey let out a breath and felt her body relax.

“This way,” Graham said, leading her out onto the terrace and across the pool area to a smaller building.

He swung open the door and led her through the open main room with its light-colored wood and festive island colors to a master bedroom where several sets of clothes had been laid out on the huge four-poster bed: swimsuits, capris, summer dresses, shorts, and T-shirts. On the floor were sandals and shoes that went with the clothes.

“I told them size two, but Laura insisted on buying everything in a four as well,” Graham said. “I guessed seven for your feet, so she got eights and sixes, too. I know you said you’d make do with the clothes you had, but I wanted you to be comfortable.”

“These are very nice,” Casey said, lifting a cotton dress from the bed. “I don’t know what to say. Who’s Laura?”

“She’s a sort of concierge,” he said. “Whenever I come to this island, or anyplace else for that matter, I have someone who takes care of things.”

“How much do you come here?”

He shrugged. “Sometimes once or twice a year. I like Barbados, too, and St. John’s.”

Charles appeared, silently deposited her bag, and left just as quietly as he’d come. Casey stared at Graham.

“What?”

“Kind of a strange coincidence,” she said, “you being a regular visitor at the place Nelson Rivers is hiding out at.”

Graham stepped toward her and rested his hands lightly on her shoulders. Softly, he said, “Will you please stop? Do you think I’ve visited this island for years because Nelson Rivers is here? It doesn’t even make sense. Why? What’s the connection? Tell me if you can even think one up and I’ll fly you straight to Dallas. I told you, I visit other islands, too. It’s a coincidence. That’s it. Now please, can we enjoy this just a little bit?”

Casey sighed and shook her head. “You’re right. Forgive me?”

“Of course,” he said. “I’ll even let you make it up to me. Take some time and get your things unpacked if you want and let’s take a swim, then dinner on the beach. What do you think?”

“I think that water looks delicious.”

Casey put some of her things away in the bathroom, then changed into a one-piece suit and found a light cotton robe in the closet. She slipped her feet into a pair of the sandals and wandered through the pool house, touching the shells in a bowl on the glass coffee table at the center of a curved sectional couch and opening the refrigerator to see fresh staples along with bottles of beer, seltzer water, and juice. She slid the glass door open and circled the pool before wandering down the curved staircase leading to the beach.

Two red-and-white-striped lounge chairs lay facing the water with a small table between them on which rested an ice bucket containing a bottle of champagne as well as two more Pyramid Hefeweizens that appeared to be an afterthought. Casey laughed to herself and walked down to where the small waves lapped the shore. Between her toes, the white sand felt fine as flour, and when she stepped into the water it gave way beneath her feet like clean mud. In front of her, the setting sun left the sky in a wash of orange, red, and violet.

“You beat me.”

She jumped and turned to see Graham standing in his suit.

“Ready?” he asked.

She followed him in, diving when he dove and swimming in slow easy strokes toward the horizon. About two hundred yards out, he stopped and treaded water. Around them, the sky had faded to twilight and a star or two winked down.

JAKE FUMBLED with his cell phone to make a 911 call.

The man rapped the barrel of his gun on the window and shouted, “Put it down!”

The man flung open the door and grabbed Jake by the collar, yanking him out of the seat and throwing him to the street. The cell phone clattered across the pavement. Jake’s hands went in the air instinctively, his eyes searching for help, maybe from the driver in the cab of the cement truck.

The truck sat empty.

“Get up,” the man shouted, hauling Jake to his feet with the gun pointed in his face.

He spun Jake around and pounded him down into the hood of the Cadillac. Jake saw stars, the impact sending fresh pain through his head. He heard the rattle of handcuffs as the second man rifled through the car. Jake’s mind whirred in confusion.

“You guys are cops?” Jake said.

“No shit,” the cop said, clipping one of the bracelets on his left wrist. “Who the hell are you?”

“I’m a reporter,” Jake said, his eyes still frantic for help from someone, any kind of passerby, but the industrial street remained empty. “Ever hear of the First Amendment?”

The cop, whose crooked teeth now shone in the smile of his closely shaven head, brought his face close to Jake’s and asked, “A fucking reporter? From fucking where?”

“Fucking American Sunday. I’m Jake Fucking Carlson.”

The second cop rounded the car and peered at Jake’s face. “Shit, yeah. Hey, you used to be on the show about Hollywood. Did you really meet those people?”

The first cop unsnapped the metal bracelet and let Jake up off the hood. Jake turned around, rubbing his wrist.

“American Outrage,” Jake said, “that was the show.”

“That’s not what you just said,” the first cop said, playing detective.

“That show got canceled,” Jake said. “I’m with a new show now. It sounds similar, but it’s totally different, American Sunday.”

“So what the fuck’s that to do with Mr. Napoli?”

“Mr. Napoli?” Jake said.

“We picked you up outside his house, starfucker,” the first cop said, “so cut the shit. It makes your eyes twitch.”

Jake looked from one cop to the other. He’d done a story a few months back about dirty cops in New Orleans-cops on the payroll of gangsters running drugs, gambling, and girls-and he knew crooked cops were always subtle about shaking someone down.