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“I’ll be damned.” Murmured under her breath as she tossed the device onto the table.
“Good news?” I asked.
She waggled a hand, maybe yes, maybe no. “I sent out feelers and just got some preliminary feedback. Best I don’t elaborate until I know more.”
While awaiting our drinks, we eyed the rolling surf on Blue Hills Beach. At least I did. Musgrove seemed distracted. After what felt like a full minute of tense silence, I tried to reengage.
“Big weekend plans?” I asked.
“What? Oh, right. After the briefing tomorrow morning—” Her tired eyes met mine. “You are coming, right?”
“I’d like to get started on—”
“I think you should hear what Flores has to say. You know. To get the whole picture.”
“Sure.” Uneasy with the intensity in her voice. “I’ll be there.”
“Good. To answer your question, after Flores I’m going over to Grand Turk to see my sister. She lives in Cockburn Town.” Sudden thought. “Unless you want me to stay here in Provo. I can—”
“No, not at all. I’ll be diving into those bones right after the meeting. Hopefully with someone to assist?”
“Iggie will be at the morgue.” Then, as though struck by a suddengap in her planning, “I’ll have an officer leave a vehicle at your condo tonight. Are you comfortable driving?”
“Of course.” I wasn’t. In TCI they drive on the left, love roundabouts, and haven’t a single traffic light in the whole country. Not one. On any island.
Musgrove was already dialing when Arthur returned. Her beverage was tall and frosty and topped with enough fruit to supply a school lunch program. Mine had no garnish.
I took a sip. Despite the name, it had no punch, either.
Glancing at the menu Arthur set before me, I could see that Da Shack was true to its name. Conch fritters. Conch chowder. Conch salad. Conch stew. Conch curry. Beaucoup fish.
Musgrove went for the grilled snapper. I chose the cracked conch with peas and rice. We shared an order of Johnny fries.
Musgrove was right. The food was well worth the detour.
I was back at my condo by nine. As I showered, a text from Musgrove landed on my phone.
Vehicle parked in slot belonging to your unit. Honda Accord. Keys under the fender on the left front tire.
Crafty, I thought. That’ll foil any thief.
After crawling into bed, I dialed Ryan. He answered before the end of the second ring. Buzz. Whatever.
“Bonjour, ma chère. Comment ça va?”
“I’m good,” I said. “You sound tired.”
“Long couple of days.”
“Are the bangers still playing their sick little game? What’s it called?”
“Scoring. An eighteen-year-old was shot yesterday on rue Ducas near Parc Angrignon. He’s at LaSalle Hospital, may or may not make it.”
“What’s the story?”
“There isn’t one. The kid was crossing a parking lot, and someone capped him.”
“Is he gang affiliated?”
