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Musgrove read my confusion.
“Can you guess TCI’s largest source of revenue?”
“Tourism,” I said.
“Bingo.”
“Might Mr. Been’s murder be gang related?” I asked.
“Doubtful these punks have that kind of reach.”
Musgrove flicked nonexistent lint from the knee of her pants. Her next words were unexpected.
“Deniz Been’s murder is not the reason I’ve come.”
9
“No sense arsing around. I’ll come straight out with it.”
Now I was the one to sit silent and listen.
“I feel sad for Deniz Been. Sad, but not surprised. The kid was a violent little wanker and finally crossed the wrong person.”
That was cold. I didn’t say it.
“Nevertheless, he should not be dead. He deserves justice and I intend to do all I can to help your local authorities find his killer. But Been is not the sole reason I’m here.”
Musgrove paused, organizing her thoughts. Perhaps reviewing a speech she’d practiced in her head.
“There are others who also deserve justice. For seven years I’ve been busting my bum trying to solve the murder of an American tourist in Providenciales.”
“Detective Musgrove, I’m—”
“Ti.”
“Ti. I’m an anthropologist, not a detective.”
“Hear me out. Please.”
I nodded.
Musgrove drew a large envelope from a brown satchel slung overher shoulder, slid a photo from it, and laid it on the blotter. I leaned forward to study the image.
The subject was a young man with blond hair, green eyes, and teeth showing not a single irregularity. He was standing on the deck of a sailboat, arms crossed, feet spread, smiling straight into the lens.
“You’re looking at Robert Galloway,” Musgrove said. “Bobby to his friends.”
Bobby Galloway’s skin was tanned, his body toned. With his all-American good looks and bring-it-on confidence, he might have scored a leading role onThe Bachelor.
Musgrove placed a second photo beside the first.
“Galloway was killed when he and three friends came to TCI to celebrate their upcoming high school graduation. He was eighteen years old.”
The second shot was better focused than the first. Yellow police tape surrounded a long gully holding a cement culvert. Tiny colored markers indicated the location of individual pieces of evidence.
Wrapping one end of the culvert was what remained of Bobby Galloway. Though mud-caked and ghostly pale, the handsome face was clearly recognizable.
Galloway died wearing REI running shorts and a green tee that saidI Got This, the inscription barely legible through the blossom of blood staining his chest. One foot wore an Adidas running shoe, the other was bare.
