Crime Almost Pays

Crime Almost Pays

         The flight down to Curacao was smooth right to the landing at Hato International.  Outside the air-conditioned terminal the warm sea air enveloped me, I had to stop and take off the suit jacket.  The cab wasn’t air-conditioned and there was heavy traffic.

         Marco’s condo is eight miles from the airport and the trip took thirty-five minutes.  When we stopped in front of his building, Marco was waiting and paid the driver before I could. 

         “Welcome Bob, hope your flight was good?”  He shook my hand with a firm grip. “Where’s your luggage?” Looking into the back of the car.

         I was holding my carry-on, “This is it! I travel light!”

         We climbed the one flight to the deck that connected all the condos on the second floor.  His door was open; I walked in and could see Mariana sun bathing on a mini balcony that overlooked the crystal clear pool. 

         “Drink?”  Marco was already behind the bar opening a bottle of Bacardi. 

         “Na, just Coke!”  He stopped, looked up in surprise and smiled.

         “You’re kidding?”

         “Nope, been on the wagon for a year now.”  I stood in the living room staring at her beautiful brown body glistening with sweat; all she was wearing was the bikini bottoms. She turned her head towards me and winked.

         “Hello Bobby, how have you been?”  I smiled back at her as Marco handed me the glass.

         “Fine, you look marvelous, is he treating you ok?”

         “I would break his head if he didn’t!”  She was lying face down and started to get up but paused.  She chuckled and pointed back into the room, “Turn around letch.”

         Looking back into the room, I was confronted by a wall mirror that gave me a clear view of her getting up and wrapping herself in a towel.  “So why the call and what’s going on?” I sat down beside him on the couch.

         “You’re the investigator, I’m just a local agent, but something stinks with this last claim.”  He handed me a thin manila folder marked Eliot Isaacs.  “Accidental death and dismemberment. And I mean dismembered!”

         I opened the folder to autopsy photos of mangled remains of the trunk of a human body.  “This is Eliot?”

         “The wife identified the remains, and the locals only did a type and match on the blood, but no DNA.  She had him cremated, Eliot’s on her mantle.”

         I began to read the police report.  It seems he was working on one of his boats, had it tied to the dock, engine running and in gear when he fell in.  It was a twin-engine Cigarette, ocean-going racer.  Susan Isaacs and a neighbor shut the boat off.  Police were notified by radio and arrived ninety minutes later.

         “It took an hour and thirty minutes to get there?”

         “Her phone lines were down because of a storm and they live in a pretty remote location.”

         I changed my clothes then Marco and I started a road trip to the Isaac home.  First stop is an ATV rental shop on the coast road.  “These people are really out there!” 

         The road is sand marked by power poles, after a while we came across the first of seven estates widely separated along the beach.  Each one palatial and elegantly set like white jewels on a salt-water lagoon. We continue to the last house.  Not as large or as flamboyant as the others but impressive to say the least. 

         Susan met us at the door, in a wet string bikini.  She was barefoot.  “Hello Susan, this is Bob Michaels he is from the main office.”

         I shook her hand she barely touched me. “Sorry about your loss.”

         Jerky and nervous she turned and started to lead us into the house.  “I didn’t expect you… It’s been so long… is there something wrong?”

         Marco answered, “No, no, just formalities, with an account this size the company becomes very knit picking.” 

         “Mrs. Isaacs, I am here to clear up one thing.”  She stopped at a counter that separates the kitchen from the dinning area.  A half full bottle of rum stood open beside three glasses of fresh ice. 

         As she poured herself two fingers she said, “Anyone want a drink?”

         Marco accepted and I asked for a coke.  While she prepared the drinks I scanned the room and found a picture of two couples in bathing suits sitting in a Cigarette boat.  Is this your husband?”

         She approached with the beverages and looked at the photo.  “Yes, he loves that thing!”

         Marco looked at the photo, “Isn’t that Kimberly and Charles Webber with you?”

         “Yes, she spends a lot of time here with us…”

         On the mantle over a fake fireplace is a brass urn.  “Your husband?”

         She looked down at the floor, “Yes”

         “It’s just a formality, but would you object to having the ashes examined?”

         Half in shock, she started to stammer, “Ex... Examined?  What… Why?  What could you find?”

         “It’s just a routine thing, the local cornier made a mistake and didn’t remove your husbands pace maker when he released the body.  He was in such bad shape after the accident, I guess he just overlooked it.”

         Her eyes were going in three directions at the same time.  “That’s ok, it won’t harm anyone, why not just leave it.”

         “It is the law, dangerous chemicals could be released.” I reached up for the vessel.  She started to cry. 

         “Shit… Damn Shit… I knew it…Damn bum heart.”

         “That’s not your husband is it?”

         She broke down and admitted it was a scam.  Charles, not Eliot, had accidentally fallen in.  Her husband and Kim talked her into switching identities for the five million dollar insurance money.  We called the police; Eliot and Kim were found hiding in the next house. Insurance fraud and evidence tampering, draws five to ten.

         I played on a lucky guess that Eliot had a pacemaker and Chuck didn’t.

         That week, Mariana and I went out every night together.

Word Count = 1000