A coffin full of pineapp.., p.31
A Coffin Full of Pineapples, page 31
While this scene played out on the edge of the quay, George Smith had taken a smaller detail around the headland to Ottley Hall, directed by his chief to assess the spread of the fire to the north, to see if it could have jumped the headlands. That’s how he came to discover a second frantic scene—this one of a group of boat pilots desperately trying to start a small fleet of powerboats. What drew George and his officers toward the marina docks, once they had arrived, was the sound of grinding gears and whining engines laboring to turn over. When the pilots saw the contingent of police officers materializing out of the smoky gloom, they took off running.
“Come on, mates,” George said to the others as they moved toward the boats. “There’s no fire here but something bloody strange is going on.”
As officers unfastened the tarpaulins covering two of the boats, the others stared in amazement at the tightly packed contents: an enormous cache of weapons, repeating rifles and handguns.
Still near the epicenter of the fire, opposite one of the AFC warehouses, James Edwards was fielding dozens of exchanges with the assistance of Narissa Benn as the calls flew among his lieutenants and the Police Commissioner about the two rapidly unfolding crime scenes. Edwards was in the midst of requesting a blockade of the AFC container ship from the Police Commissioner when a nonpolice call managed to slip through.
“Sir, I’ve got Jake Phelps on the line. He says it’s urgent.”
“Put him through.”
“James, Jake here. I’ve got Maggie.”
For a moment, everything else fell away. “Say again.”
“I’ve got Maggie.”
Edwards stood stock-still.
“Sir, are you all right?” Narissa asked.
Edwards didn’t hear her. “How is she?”
“She’s in pretty bad shape, but she’s holding up. She needs a doctor as soon as possible. Can someone help get us to town?”
“Collin Franklin and Harold Avery are both here at Campden Park. Where are you?”
“We’re here too, in the office of the marina at Ottley Hall.”
“Then stay where you are. We’ll get one of them there as fast as we can.”
Narissa asked again, “Sir, are you all right?”
Edwards took a deep breath, trying hard to collect himself. “Maggie’s alive,” he said, his voice shaking. “She’s alive.”
“Hello, darling.” Collin Franklin greeted Maggie with his customary calm demeanor, betraying none of the shock he felt at her appearance. Her eyes were black and blue, her right cheek bruised and swollen, her lip split from the many times her assailants had struck her across the face. She was lying on a camping cot Jurgen kept at the marina office under several blankets.
“How are you?” At first, it was hard to know if she could hear him.
“Cold,” she replied. She was far away.
He took her hand very gently, feeling for her pulse, then began to check her other vitals. Her hand was freezing. She was shaking.
“Are you in pain?”
“Waves.”
He realized the effort it took her for even the one-word answers. He turned to the medics who had arrived with him. “Let’s get an IV going straight away. We need to get Miss Mullaley rehydrated, elevate her temperature and her blood pressure. But let’s also get some pain meds and some antibiotics started at the same time. Then we can start dealing with the injuries.”
James Edwards arrived while Collin tended to Maggie, conferring with him for a moment. Then he took Jake aside.
“Jesus, man, I’m so sorry.”
Jake could only nod. With Maggie, he had been steady, for moments, even upbeat. Out of her sight, he was distraught, anguished at her condition, filled with remorse at what he had failed to notice in the days leading up to the kidnapping. Now as Jake and James Edwards regarded each other, each recognized the guilt the other was feeling.
“Where did you find her?” Edwards asked.
“I didn’t. It’s more like she found me. I have no idea how she managed to survive, to escape, to climb the face of the headlands.” Jake ran a hand through his hair. “She’s so bloody strong, so determined.” Finally, he smiled a little. “She was almost passed out, but she wouldn’t let me call you until we had dealt with that set of powerboats hidden in the floating garage.”
“I’d like to talk to her.”
“For God’s sake, James, you’ve seen her. Can’t you wait?”
Edwards shook his head. “I just need a moment. Right now, every second matters. Collin will sedate her as soon as he can get her more stable. If we can just find where her kidnappers held her before they destroy the evidence, we’ll have a better chance of catching the fucking bastards.”
Jake had never heard him sound less professional.
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
Monday, Day 36, Kingstown
“All rise,” proclaimed the bailiff, as His Honor, Judge Cantran Brewster, the Chief Magistrate of St. Vincent and the Grenadines, made his entrance into Kingstown’s venerable old courthouse. Following the British tradition on which St. Vincent’s legal system is based, he wore a curled white wig, a wide white-banded collar with two ties hanging at the front, and a long black robe.
Built in the late 1800s, the historic building was filled to capacity as the preliminary inquiry into the events of a week ago at Campden Park was called to order. There was a frenetic energy to the crowd, tightly packed onto the original, narrow, hard benches from the court’s earliest days, who sensed that something out of the ordinary was in the offing. The magistrate gaveled loudly to contain the growing excitement.
Peering over his glasses, he took his time looking around the courthouse, the antic emotions of the gathering so at odds with the sedate architecture of the building’s interior—a pentagonal design of five equal sections spreading out from the central raised dais for the judge. “Ladies and gentlemen, we are assembled here for an inquiry. This is not a trial. It is also”—he added sternly—“not an entertainment. What we hope to learn today will help the police and the court determine what further steps should be pursued following the events occurring at the Campden Park Industrial Complex and the Ottley Hall Marina a week ago.”
And so, the inquiry began. By the time it had concluded three days later, an extraordinary set of findings had been established.
Several members of the Amalgamated Fruit Company’s security branch were designated persons of interest in the investigation of the murders of Frank Pendleton and Paco Diaz.
In addition, those same security guards, plus several more, were declared persons of interest in the matter of the kidnapping of Maggie Mullaley. Evidence presented by the police suggested they were exploring links between the pickpocketing incident that occurred just before the kidnapping, the attack on Maggie and Nelson Hardwick in Bequia, and the looting of Nelson Hardwick’s media shop. There might be further charges, the magistrate intimated, related to the kidnapping of Enrique Morales and the attempted murders of Enrique Morales and Solange Leverte.
One of the few times the magistrate softened his demeanor was in taking Maggie through her account of the kidnapping. He seemed to recognize her fragility. At first, she stared straight ahead, speaking quietly and with little emotion, as if she could shield her privacy that way. Still, the crowd was hushed, riveted, the creaking of the vintage benches silenced for the moment, as she described the escalating physical and sexual violence she had experienced.
Maggie only wavered when the magistrate asked her about her escape, when she described the moment Frank Pendleton had charged at their attackers instead of running with her toward the door and the possibility of freedom.
“Why do you think he did that, Ms. Mullaley?”
Maggie took her time answering. “To try to save me. To buy me a few extra seconds. He had already told me he was in bad shape, that he would only hold me back.” She swallowed hard. “But I think he was also trying to make amends.”
“What do you mean?”
Now instead of staring straight ahead, Maggie looked directly into the eyes of the magistrate. “I think there was a time when he had different hopes for how his life might turn out. What happened to Enrique, to Mr. Morales, made him see just how far he had fallen, how many compromises he had accepted. Mr. Pendleton saw AFC’s security guards remove Enrique by force from the plantation, and he did nothing to stop them. Instead of protecting him, he had looked the other way.” Maggie’s voice broke.
“Are you able to continue, Ms. Mullaley?”
After a swallow of water, Maggie nodded. “Yes, Your Honor. Thank you. In the end, I think Frank was doing what he could to make sure that Enrique’s story and what happened to his children and his community didn’t disappear.”
The magistrate’s austere manner in no way deterred the salacious buzz of the crowd as the details of the murders unfolded. Likewise, the crowd salivated over the magnitude of the smuggling operation outlined by Chief Detective Inspector James Edwards. They elbowed each other with delight at the empty platitudes of Hank Scanlan.
“We are shocked. We cannot comment at this time. We are doing our own internal investigation. We are a very large organization. We had contracted with a third party. Perhaps, some rogue players have been taking advantage of our far-flung network of plantations for their own illegal activities.”
“So”—pressed a clearly irritated magistrate—“you can shed no light on how these boats packed with illegal weapons came to be docked in a facility that you manage?”
“No, regretfully, we cannot.”
“Nor how kilogram packages of cocaine were being secreted in the pineapple containers on board your docked container ship.”
“Again, Your Honor, we are as mystified as everyone else.”
The Chief Magistrate gave him a penetrating stare. “I see. Then I suggest that you work harder to provide the court with a more satisfactory explanation.”
For Chief Detective Inspector James Edwards, the thwarting of the smuggling plot was a coup. He could afford to be modest.
Looking only briefly at Maggie, he explained, “We were fortunate that our entire team of officers was on the mainland when the fire alarms were sounded. When we moved to secure the outer perimeters of the area, we discovered the powerboats packed with weapons, the pilots frantically trying to start them.”
“And the reason the boats failed to start?”
“It would appear their engines had been sabotaged in some way, though we don’t know who was responsible.”
“Curious,” said the magistrate dryly.
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“And the stashes of what appear to be cocaine being secreted at the bottom of the pineapple containers?”
“Also discovered by chance as we moved to assist the fire chief in evacuating the area.”
“What a surprising number of coincidences, Chief Detective Inspector.”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
As to the fire, as large as it was, in the end little about its origin could be determined with certainty.
The fire chief speculated that though the fire might have been set on purpose, for the time being, he could only surmise that something like a Big Drum bonfire had been mistakenly set in the wrong place and lit by accident. It had burned so thoroughly that the few remaining fragments, possibly pineapple crates and bits of pineapple and banana fronds, might be too little to establish conclusive answers. And of course, these materials are found all over the island and could have come from anywhere.
“Ah,” said the magistrate. “We will await your further assessment.”
Throughout this part of the inquiry, Solange had studied her hands.
The last remaining item of the inquiry was the continued blockade of not one but two of AFC’s container ships.
“It has been brought to my attention,” said the Chief Magistrate, addressing the entire gathering, but especially James Edwards, “that part of St. Vincent’s constabulary in collaboration with our entire small navy are detaining a pair of Amalgamated Fruit Company container ships in port. AFC’s chief executives from South America and the Caribbean have filed a joint complaint with our government demanding that you allow these container ships to depart.”
“Mr. Scanlan,” the Chief Magistrate continued, “I gather you would like to address the court.”
“Your Honor, we must request that our container ships be allowed to sail without further delay. Chief Inspector Edwards has behaved in a most reckless manner by holding these ships on the dock at Campden Park. The incident with the powerboats is regrettable, but it has nothing to do with our container ships. Likewise, a few packets of cocaine being shoved haphazardly into one or two containers by some random actors taking advantage of the chaos of the fire is hardly justification for holding up our ships. These boats are loaded with perishable goods, many tons of pineapples. Every day of delay risks spoilage for our cargo.”
“Chief Inspector Edwards, can you explain to the court why you have delayed the sailing of AFC’s container ships and taken these extraordinary measures?”
“Certainly, Your Honor. Contrary to Mr. Scanlan’s assertion, we believe there is a compelling connection between the timing of the arrival and departure of the container ships and the weapons discovered on the powerboats. We believe that AFC has two international trade businesses, one public and one clandestine. The public one is fruit shipments to legitimate destinations for all the world to see. The private one is weapons and drugs piggybacked onto the public one. Sadly, Your Honor, this is not a rarity. Fully one-third of all South American drugs are now moving about the world hidden in container ships under their legitimate cargos of fruits and vegetables.”
The court erupted into a frenzy. Hank Scanlan stood up at the same time and began shouting. The bailiff’s stentorian voice, calling order in the court, finally ended the chaos.
James Edwards was unruffled. “Your Honor, until I became aware of these boatloads of weapons, I thought the drug issues we were observing at AFC were related to their security staff.”
“Would you explain, Chief Inspector?”
“Yes, of course. A strange incident occurred some weeks ago when we first discovered the body of an AFC field-worker, brutally murdered and packed into a pineapple shipping crate. The crate had been packed on a farm in St. Vincent and shipped to Union on the MV Gem Star. On the night before the crate was opened in Union and the body discovered, an extremely expensive sailboat named Liquid Assets ran aground in Clifton Harbor, Union Island’s main anchorage.
“Even after my officers started to discover links among these events, that Liquid Assets was a sailboat owned by Amalgamated Fruit, that it had raced from its home marina in St. Vincent to try to head off the discovery of the body in the crate in Union, that one of its security guards had packed the murdered corpse in the crate as a misguided attempt to pin the murder on an innocent farmer, we missed something crucial about what was unfolding.
“It was the cocaine use of the security guards and what they were hiding in the below decks of Liquid Assets when they sneaked the badly damaged boat out of Clifton Harbor. In hindsight, we believe that time after time, the ineptness of the guards and their reckless, almost-giddy judgment was a result of their drug use. When the police officers in Union continued their search of Liquid Assets while it was being repaired in Tyrrel Bay, they discovered empty wrappers used to transport bricks of drugs from what we believe is Colombia. Our lab has been testing the materials. But, sir, it was only when we discovered the magnitude of the weapons cache, that it occurred to us that what the security guards were pilfering was a pittance of the drugs that were being moved by AFC between South America and Europe with St. Vincent as a pivot point.”
Another uproar consumed the court that took some minutes to quell amid several warnings by the bailiff that the courtroom would be cleared.
Hank Scanlan insisted on being heard. “These are nonsensical and wild assertions. The chief inspector is jumping to completely unjustified conclusions. My colleague, Barbara Crandall, who is our chief legal officer, is prepared to address the court as well.”
“Ms. Crandall,” the magistrate peered over his glasses at her.
Barbara Crandall shifted uncomfortably in her seat but said nothing.
“Ms. Crandall,” repeated the magistrate, growing impatient. “The court’s time is valuable. Do you plan to address the court or not?”
Hank Scanlan stared at her. She did not return his gaze. In that moment, he felt the earth shift under his feet.
“Thank you, Your Honor,” she said as she stood. “I would have preferred to confer with you in private about this matter. However, under the circumstances, I must tell you that for some time Armando Cruz, CEO of the Amalgamated Fruit Company for all of South America and the Caribbean, and I have been concerned about the possibility that somehow drug smugglers might have infiltrated our shipping supply lines.” She took a deep breath as if she had not been practicing this little speech over and over since her last phone call with Armando Cruz. “We have been vigilant in trying to protect our production and our reputation. It would be shocking if somehow Hank Scanlan, a colleague whom we have valued and trusted, could have betrayed the organization in this way.”
The gathering fell into a stunned silence.
“Ms. Crandall, are you suggesting that you believe Mr. Scanlan is culpable as Chief Detective Inspector James has claimed?”
Barbara Crandall’s face took on an expression of respectful regret. “We desperately hope that is not the case. And yet, we must not shirk our responsibility to our community of workers, to our hosts in St. Vincent, and to our shareholders.”
“Then I take it you do not object to the complete search of your two docked freighters as the chief inspector proposes?”
“On behalf of our CEO, Armando Cruz, we do not. As you, we only seek the truth and to repair whatever damage our reputation might have sustained.”
At that moment, Hank Scanlan might have been carved from stone. He couldn’t move. He could hardly breathe. Only his brain continued to work as he recalled the moment when he and Barbara had decided to feed Marky Platt to the police as a scapegoat for the misdeeds of the security staff, though Platt was far from the most culpable. That had been at the suggestion of Armando Cruz. At the time, Barbara had said in an offhand kind of way, “Part of being a good manager is knowing when to cut someone loose, when to make them a fall guy. Doesn’t matter whether they deserve it. All that matters is how it serves the organization.”
