No motorcycle.
Simon did a quick scan, didn’t see a thing. “I really don’t like this.”
“Maybe he just went into town to get some barbeque sauce to go with his snails.”
Simon didn’t think so, but he didn’t argue as they walked up to the cottage. The door wasn’t locked. He didn’t say a word, just picked Lily up under her armpits and moved her behind him. He opened the door slowly. It was gloomy inside, all the blinds pulled down. The room was completely empty—no stacked paintings against the walls, no easel, no palette, not even a drop of paint anywhere or the smell of turpentine, just empty.
“Check the kitchen, Lily. I’m going to look in the bedroom.” They met back in the empty living room five minutes later.
Agent Colin Smith stood in the open doorway. “No sign of Abe Turkle?”
Simon shook his head and said, “Nope. All that’s left is a box of Puffed Wheat, a bit of milk, not soured, and a couple of apples, still edible, so he hasn’t been gone long.”
Lily said, “He’s packed up and left. All his clothes, suitcase, everything gone, even his toothpaste.”
“Do you think he went to London with that painting he was finishing?”
“I hope not. It was really very good, too good.”
Colin Smith asked, “You were afraid he was dead, weren’t you? Murdered. Like Mr. Monk.”
Simon nodded. “I had a bad feeling there for a while. Let’s tell Lieutenant Dobbs about this. Agent Smith, if you’ll call Clark Hoyt, fill him in. You know, Abe had lots of stuff—at least thirty paintings leaning against the walls. All he had was a motorcycle. Maybe he rented a U-Haul to carry everything away.”
“Or maybe one of the Frasiers loaned him a truck.”
“Maybe. Now then, Agent Smith, Lily and I are off to pay a visit to Morrie Jones. I need to speak to Lieutenant Dobbs and the DA, get their okay. I’ve got an offer for Morrie he can’t refuse.”
Lily held up a hand. “No, I don’t want to know. Maybe by now they know who’s paying his lawyer.” Simon closed the cottage door and waved to Agent Smith.
“Don’t count on it,” Simon said as he set the pillow gently over Lily’s stomach and fastened the seat belt.
19
Saint John’s, Antigua Public Administration Building, near Reed Airport
“It’s so bright and hot and blue,” Sherlock said, scratching her arm. Then she sighed. “You know, Sean would really like this place. We could strip him down and play in that sand, build a castle with him, even a moat. I can just see him rolling over on the castle, flattening it, laughing all the while.”
For the first time in as long as she could remember, Sherlock realized Dillon wasn’t listening. She could only imagine what was going through his mind, all the ifs and buts.
It was his show, and naturally he was worried, impossible not to be. They were working through the American Consular Agent with the Royal Police Force at Police Headquarters located on, strangely enough, American Road. But they were still in a foreign country, dealing with locals who were both bewildered by the extreme reaction of the United States federal cops—all fifty of them—to one woman, who only had one arm and was supposedly coming to their airport. But they were cooperating, really serious now after Savich had shown the entire group photos of her victims, including the latest one on Tortola. That one really brought it home.
Tammy couldn’t have gotten to Antigua before late morning, no way, even with a fast boat. Tortola was just too far away. The weather had been calm, no high winds or waves. She couldn’t have gotten here ahead of them, except by plane, and they’d been checking air traffic from Tortola and nearby islands. And there was no indication at all that she knew how to fly. They’d had time to get everything set up, to get everyone in position.
Sherlock gave him a clear look. “We have time. Stop worrying. Marilyn will be here in about two hours. We’ll go over everything with her, step by step.”
“What if Tammy isn’t alone? What if Tammy has been traveling around as Timmy this whole time? Remember, it was Timmy who called Marilyn at Quantico.”
Sherlock had never before seen him so questioning of what he was doing.
When she spoke, Sherlock’s voice was as calm as the incredible blue water not one hundred yards away, “One arm is one arm, despite anything else. No one on any of the islands has reported anyone jiggering about with just one arm. The odds are stacked way against her. You know all the local police in both the British Virgin Islands and the U.S. Virgin Islands are on full alert. The Antiguan authorities aren’t used to mayhem like this, so you can bet they’re very concerned, probably more hyper than we are, particularly after those crime-scene photos. Dillon, everyone is taking this very seriously.”