Part 8 (1/2)

The question now was, Did it have brakes?

The car wasn't slowing down. If anything, it was getting faster as it got closer.

Finally, pulling a move straight out of the Starsky and Hutch school of driving, the car skidded to a stop right in front of us, the back wheels drifting across the hot asphalt of the tarmac.

On the side of the car it read ROYAL TURKS & CAICOS ISLANDS POLICE.

I glanced over at Kevin, who looked as if he were about to soil his linen shorts. ”Mr. Breslow didn't arrange for an escort by any chance, did he?” I asked.

Kevin shook his head no.

And I just shook my head, period.

So much for incognito. Apparently, I was going to meet with the police a little sooner than I expected.

Did I mention how hot it was down here?

Welcome to Turks and Caicos, O'Hara.

Chapter 12

POLICE COMMISSIONER JOSEPH Eldridge, whose jurisdiction was every square inch of all forty islands and cays that made up Turks and Caicos, lit a cigarillo behind his spotless desk, blew out some smoke, and stared at me as if he knew something I didn't.

Undoubtedly, he did. Namely, why I'd been ”escorted” from the airport straight to his office.

In addition to him, there were two other men in the room: the chairman of the tourism board and the deputy police commissioner.

I didn't get their names, but it didn't matter. They were sitting off to the side and showed no intention of talking. This conversation was strictly between Eldridge and me.

”I didn't know what to expect from Mr. Breslow,” began Eldridge. ”Only that it was going to be something. Or, I should say, someone.”

Clearly, Breslow's wealth and reputation preceded him. I smiled. ”Well, it's always good to be someone, right?”

Eldridge leaned back in his chair, letting go with a deep laugh. He looked a little like an older Denzel Was.h.i.+ngton and sounded a lot like James Earl Jones. All in all, he seemed to be a pleasant enough guy.

Still, there was a fine line between my being welcome or unwelcome on Turks and Caicos, and I was obviously straddling it like a Flying Wallenda in boat shoes.

”So what are your intentions while you're here?” he asked.

If Eldridge was savvy enough to antic.i.p.ate Breslow hiring a private investigator, and thorough enough to check the manifest of every arriving private plane until he found one owned by Breslow, I wasn't about to get cute with him. My personal circ.u.mstances aside, I was an FBI agent ”on leave” from the Bureau trying to help a man who had suffered an incredible loss.

That's what I told him, adding: ”I'm simply here to make sure no stone is left unturned in the investigation. No harm in that, right?”

Eldridge nodded. ”Are you carrying a firearm?” he asked.