boat’s boom net extended over the water. “No such luck. He’s back in business.” Tangled inside the net hanging from the boom is Pat’s naked, bloody body. A steel spear is pierced between her breasts, through her chest, and out her back. Her ears have been cut off. Her lifeless lips are closed shut by the sharp barbed metal points of J-hooks.
The Chief shakes his head. “Only thing different with Bizango’s MO this time is, he closed the mouth with J-hooks, not fishing line. Why J-hooks?”
“Could be simple. Could be that’s all he had.”
“J-hooks, for Christ’s sake. I still don’t get it.”
A rowboat in the water below the boom glides under the net weighted with Pat’s body. A police photographer in the boat aims his camera up and rapid-fires pictures through a zoom lens.
The Chief looks at the seagulls above, diving in downward swoops toward the mutilated body in the net. “Why Pat? She’s not involved with Neptune Bay Resort.”
“No rhyme or reason. Bizango must be—”
Loud shouting and banging come from belowdecks.Luz and the Chief run to the open hatch doorway leading below. They pull their guns and climb down the spiral ladder into the galley. They look around; the galley is deserted. They hurry through a low opening into the engine room. Next to a maze of greasy valves, pistons, and pipes stands Moxel, holding a gun to the head of the Haitian boy Rimbaud.
Moxel triumphantly announces, “Found this monkey hiding here.”
Rimbaud’s fatigued red eyes are terrified, his clothes dirty and ragged; his body is thin from lack of food.
The Chief rushes to Rimbaud. “What did you do to the white woman? How long have you been hiding on her boat?”
Rimbaud is too frightened to answer. He looks with pleading wide eyes at Luz.
Luz steps close to Rimbaud and speaks in a calm voice. “Son, what’s your name?”
Rimbaud bites his trembling lip and doesn’t answer.
“Son, I promise I won’t let them hurt you. Who are you?”
Rimbaud’s words blurt out in French to Luz. “Protect me! I saw a Bizango. Don’t let Bizango kill me.”
The Chief looks at Luz. “What’s he saying?”
Moxel shouts. “Yeah, what’s the monkey’s alibi!”
Luz shakes her head. “I don’t know what he’s saying. He seems to be speaking French. All I understand is the word ‘Bizango.’ ”
The Chief orders Luz, “Lock him up and get him an interpreter. I want answers.”
Moxel unhooks the steel handcuffs dangling from hisbelt. He grabs Rimbaud’s thin arms and roughly shackles the boy’s hands behind his back. He pushes the boy forward with a proud nod at the Chief and Luz. “I’ll book him. It was me. I got Bizango. I got the serial killer.”
L uz paces back and forth impatiently at the end of a long corridor in the Detention Center. A uniformed and armed guard marches to her with Rimbaud. The boy’s head is shaved; his skinny body looks lost in a bright-orange prisoner jumpsuit; his hands are cuffed.
The guard speaks to Luz quickly, with irritation: “Where’s the interpreter? He’s supposed to be here to get the prisoner’s statement.”
“Don’t worry. He’s coming. Take the handcuffs off the boy.”
“No way. He’s a murder suspect.”
Luz sees Noah, dressed in his rumpled seersucker suit, weaving drunkenly up the corridor. He stops in front of her and raises his hand in a salute. “French interpreter, reporting for duty, sir.”
Luz stiffens with anger. “Sober up! This kid’s being accused of murder! You’ve got a job to do!”
Noah turns and recognizes the shaven-head prisoner in the orange jumpsuit. He blurts out a laugh. “Rimbaud! He’s no murderer. You’ve got to be kidding. The kid is harmless. What kind of bullshit is this?”
The guard sniffs the rum scent of Noah’s breath. “It’s no bullshit, buddy. You have thirty minutes to get the prisoner’s statement before he’s locked up again.”
Noah tilts on wobbly legs. “A whole thirty minutes,
The Chief shakes his head. “Only thing different with Bizango’s MO this time is, he closed the mouth with J-hooks, not fishing line. Why J-hooks?”
“Could be simple. Could be that’s all he had.”
“J-hooks, for Christ’s sake. I still don’t get it.”
A rowboat in the water below the boom glides under the net weighted with Pat’s body. A police photographer in the boat aims his camera up and rapid-fires pictures through a zoom lens.
The Chief looks at the seagulls above, diving in downward swoops toward the mutilated body in the net. “Why Pat? She’s not involved with Neptune Bay Resort.”
“No rhyme or reason. Bizango must be—”
Loud shouting and banging come from belowdecks.Luz and the Chief run to the open hatch doorway leading below. They pull their guns and climb down the spiral ladder into the galley. They look around; the galley is deserted. They hurry through a low opening into the engine room. Next to a maze of greasy valves, pistons, and pipes stands Moxel, holding a gun to the head of the Haitian boy Rimbaud.
Moxel triumphantly announces, “Found this monkey hiding here.”
Rimbaud’s fatigued red eyes are terrified, his clothes dirty and ragged; his body is thin from lack of food.
The Chief rushes to Rimbaud. “What did you do to the white woman? How long have you been hiding on her boat?”
Rimbaud is too frightened to answer. He looks with pleading wide eyes at Luz.
Luz steps close to Rimbaud and speaks in a calm voice. “Son, what’s your name?”
Rimbaud bites his trembling lip and doesn’t answer.
“Son, I promise I won’t let them hurt you. Who are you?”
Rimbaud’s words blurt out in French to Luz. “Protect me! I saw a Bizango. Don’t let Bizango kill me.”
The Chief looks at Luz. “What’s he saying?”
Moxel shouts. “Yeah, what’s the monkey’s alibi!”
Luz shakes her head. “I don’t know what he’s saying. He seems to be speaking French. All I understand is the word ‘Bizango.’ ”
The Chief orders Luz, “Lock him up and get him an interpreter. I want answers.”
Moxel unhooks the steel handcuffs dangling from hisbelt. He grabs Rimbaud’s thin arms and roughly shackles the boy’s hands behind his back. He pushes the boy forward with a proud nod at the Chief and Luz. “I’ll book him. It was me. I got Bizango. I got the serial killer.”
L uz paces back and forth impatiently at the end of a long corridor in the Detention Center. A uniformed and armed guard marches to her with Rimbaud. The boy’s head is shaved; his skinny body looks lost in a bright-orange prisoner jumpsuit; his hands are cuffed.
The guard speaks to Luz quickly, with irritation: “Where’s the interpreter? He’s supposed to be here to get the prisoner’s statement.”
“Don’t worry. He’s coming. Take the handcuffs off the boy.”
“No way. He’s a murder suspect.”
Luz sees Noah, dressed in his rumpled seersucker suit, weaving drunkenly up the corridor. He stops in front of her and raises his hand in a salute. “French interpreter, reporting for duty, sir.”
Luz stiffens with anger. “Sober up! This kid’s being accused of murder! You’ve got a job to do!”
Noah turns and recognizes the shaven-head prisoner in the orange jumpsuit. He blurts out a laugh. “Rimbaud! He’s no murderer. You’ve got to be kidding. The kid is harmless. What kind of bullshit is this?”
The guard sniffs the rum scent of Noah’s breath. “It’s no bullshit, buddy. You have thirty minutes to get the prisoner’s statement before he’s locked up again.”
Noah tilts on wobbly legs. “A whole thirty minutes,
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