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“That’s nice.”
“Julio Gomez. You remember him?”
The black man’s open, honest face clouded. He reached into the Gulf Lady and took a rod from a holder. He examined the jig lure and the hook for several seconds, then handed the rod to Favaro.
“You like yellowtail snappe
r? They some good snapper right under the dock. Down at the far end.”
Together they walked to the far end of the jetty, out of earshot of anyone else. Favaro wondered why.
Jimmy Dobbs took the rod back and cast expertly across the water. He reeled in slowly, letting the brightly colored jig wriggle and turn beneath the surface. A small blue runner made a dart for the lure and turned away.
“Julio Gomez dead,” Jimmy Dobbs said gravely.
“I know,” said Favaro. “I’d like to find out why. He fished with you a lot, I think.”
“Every year. He good man, nice guy.”
“He tell you what his job was in Miami?”
“Yep. Once.”
“You ever tell anyone else?”
“Nope. You a friend or a colleague?”
“Both, Jimmy. Tell me, when did you last see Julio?”
“Right here, Thursday evening. We’d been out all day. He booked me for Friday morning. Never showed up.”
“No,” said Favaro. “He was at the airstrip, trying to get a flight to Miami. In a hurry. He picked the wrong plane—blew up over the sea. Why did we have to walk down here to talk?”
Jimmy Dobbs hooked a two-pound horse-eye jack and handed the shivering rod to Favaro. The American reeled in. He was inexpert. The jack took some slack line and jumped the hook.
“They some bad people on these islands,” he said simply.
Favaro realized he could now identify an odor he had smelled in the town: It was fear. He knew about fear. No Miami cop is stranger to that unique aroma. Somehow, fear had now come to paradise.
“When he left you, he was a happy man?”
“Yep. One fine fish he was taking home for supper. He was happy. No problems.”
“Where did he go from here?”
Jimmy Dobbs looked surprised. “To Mrs. Macdonald’s, of course. He always stayed with her.”
Mrs. Macdonald was not at home. She was out shopping. Favaro decided to come back later. First, he would try the airport. He returned to Parliament Square. There were two taxis, but both drivers were at lunch. There was nothing he could do about it; he crossed the square to the Quarter Deck to eat and wait for them to come back. He took a verandah seat from where he could watch for the taxis. All around him was the same excited buzz that had pervaded breakfast—the talk being only of the murder of the Governor the previous evening.
“They sending a senior detective from Scotland Yard,” one of the group near Favaro announced.
Two men entered the bar. They were big, and they said not a word. The conversation died. The two men removed every poster proclaiming the candidacy of Marcus Johnson and put up different ones. The new posters said, VOTE LIVINGSTONE, THE PEOPLE’S CANDIDATE. When they had finished, they left.
The waiter came over and set down grilled fish and a beer.
“Who were they?” asked Favaro.
“Election helpers of Mr. Livingstone,” the waiter said expressionlessly.
