Calypso (The Harry Starke Novels Book 8)

  Calypso

  A Harry Starke Novel

  By

  Blair Howard

  Calypso

  Copyright © 2016 Blair Howard

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the written permission of the author, except for brief quotations used in critical articles and reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, organizations, companies, brands, clubs, businesses, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, entities, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN-13: 978-1539190059

  Cover design: Tim Brenner

  Website: https://tpkbrenner.wordpress.com/

  Calypso – A Harry Starke Novel

  “The most loving parents and relatives commit murder with smiles on their faces.”—Jim Morrison

  “There are four basic reasons why someone commits murder. The first and most powerful is love. The second—equally powerful—is hate. Almost equally compelling is revenge. The fourth is profit. Money. When one family member kills another, one or more of them is almost always the motive, and the murders on Calypso Key were no exception.”—Harry Starke

  It was one of those beautiful, balmy days on Calypso Key in the US Virgin Islands. The sky was blue and a cool breeze was blowing in off the ocean as Harry and Amanda took their vows. All of their friends were there and all was well with the world... and then the sky fell.

  Harry draws the line at getting involved when the death of one of his father’s friends intrudes upon his wedding day—until he finds out he owes the girl’s father a debt he can never repay. And so he is dragged into an investigation of not just one murder, but two—and the wealthiest, most dysfunctional family he’s ever met. The cast of characters includes a former Navy Seal turned butler, a man up to his eyes in shady financial dealings, and the woman at the heart of it all, who was pushed to her death from a third-story balcony. Harry clears a few hours to enjoy the good life on Calypso Key, but as for the investigation... well, we all know that when Harry’s involved, nothing is ever quite what it seems.

  Chapter 1

  Saturday, November 12. Early

  “Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here in the sight of God, and in the face of this company, to join together this man and this woman in holy matrimony, which is commended to be honorable among all men, and therefore….”

  Oh my God. Am I really doing this?

  Was I having second thoughts? No. I was simply overcome with wonder at what was happening to me. There I was—I’m Harry Starke, by the way—after almost forty-six years as a confirmed bachelor, standing beside one of the most beautiful women I’d ever met, on a sun-drenched island in the Caribbean, taking vows to forever bind me to her. I have to tell you: over the years I’d been through some crazy experiences, most of them good, some of them really bad, but this….

  “This occasion marks the celebration of love and commitment with which this man and this woman begin their life together. And now, through me….”

  It was just after sunrise. A cool breeze was blowing in off the ocean, over the beach where we stood. I looked around. Everyone was there—my family, my friends; everyone who was important to me. It wasn’t a big group. In fact, as wedding parties go, it was kinda small; just twenty-seven people. Nice, that.

  Yes, my mind was beginning to wander, but I was soon brought back to the moment by a discreet elbow from Bob Ryan, my best man. I closed my eyes, squeezed Amanda’s hand, and relished the gentle pressure I felt in return. I turned and looked at her; she smiled up at me; I nodded and smiled back at her.

  The minister went on for a few more minutes, and then suddenly I heard:

  “Do you, Harry….”

  And yes, I did, and so did Amanda, and five minutes later we were in each other’s arms and the little crowd was cheering wildly.

  What happened next had to be seen to be believed. Bob Ryan grabbed me around the waist, actually hoisted me into the air, and ran with me into the ocean—and as soon as he’d dumped me in he went after Amanda. She tried to run, shrieking, laughing, but it was no good. As big as he is, the man moves like a gazelle, and a minute later he’d dumped her in the water at my side, and then damn it if he didn’t take off after Kate. It was the beginning of what promised to be a glorious day. I grabbed Amanda, ignoring the shooting pains in my left arm—from a still-healing gunshot wound; long story—and hoisted her over my shoulder, kicking and yelling and laughing. I headed out with her, away from the beach into deeper water. Hell, I even saw my old man and Rose get into the water…. The only shadow over the proceedings was that my kid brother Hank wasn’t there. His death at the hands of one Shady Tree only six weeks before—part of the long story that ended in me getting shot—had hit me and my family hard. But, as they say, life goes on, and I know he would have wanted us all to be happy.

  The good times continued on through a very wet lunch—and by wet, I don’t mean water—and then into the afternoon, until at last I insisted on being alone, at least for an hour or two, with my new wife.

  We were on Calypso Key in the Virgin Islands. I’d booked what could only be called a resort within a resort: a small, private, ocean-side complex of four villas, each with four bedrooms, and a small private cottage, which was where Amanda and I retreated to. The five units came with a small clubhouse, a private bar, a dining room, an infinity pool, and a whole passel of staff that included housekeepers, a chef, full-time bar staff, and… two butlers. That’s right, there were two of ’em, and I’d booked it all for two whole weeks. No, you don’t wanna know what that was costing me… well, maybe you do, but you’re not going to. Ah. Whatever. It was worth it.

  Amanda and I had been a couple for almost three years before I’d finally asked her to tie the knot. We’d lived together in my home on Lookout Mountain for almost a year before that, so we were well used to one another. But somehow, that afternoon on Calypso Key, I started to see Amanda in a totally different light. She was as beautiful as ever, but in a very different way. I can’t describe it. She had an air about her; it was an almost ethereal thing.

  Once we got into the cottage Amanda closed the door, locked it, took my hand, and led me to a place that was probably as close to Heaven as I’m ever likely to get.

  It was almost five o’clock that afternoon when we were dragged back to the real world by an insistent banging at the cottage door.

  What the hell? I crawled off the bed, wrapped a sheet around me, and headed down the stairs.

  I opened the front door and was greeted by two men, one big and black, one tall, skinny, and with much lighter skin. I didn’t have to look at them twice to know they were cops. “Mr. Starke? Mr. Harry Starke?” the first one asked.

  I looked at them hard. Neither one of them flinched. They both looked me right in the eye.

  “Nope,” I said, pushing the door closed.

  The second one put out a hand and caught it.

  “Oh yeah. Pull the other one, Harry,” he said, smiling a big, toothy grin. “Yeah, I know it’s been a long time, but come on….”

  What the hell?

  It was the grin that did it. I hadn’t seen it in more than fifteen years, since I was a rookie cop back in Chattanooga.

  “Tommy? Tommy… Quinn? What the hell are you doing here?”

  He nodded, still grinning. “It’s Lieutenant Quinn now. I’m with the USVI Police Department, Major Crimes Unit on St. Thomas. Oh, and congratulations, by the way. Um… can we come in?”

  “No! Hell no! I’m all but naked,
for one, and two, I just got married. It’s nice to see you Tommy, I mean it, but come back another day. We’re here for two weeks.” Again, I tried to push the door closed. Again, he held it open.

  “Yeah, I see the naked thing,” he said, grinning, “and I know about you getting married—and I wouldn’t be here if I had a choice, but this is official. So c’mon, Harry. Let us in.”

  “Harry,” Amanda called, “whoever it is, tell them we’ll meet them at the bar in a couple of hours.”

  “Now see what you’ve done,” I said. “She was asleep.”

  “Sorry, Harry, but this is important. We need to talk. We really do.”

  I sighed, shook my head, and opened the door wide enough for them to enter.

  “Two minutes. No more. I mean it, Tommy. I’ve waited a lot of years for this and I don’t want it screwed up.”

  He nodded. They came in, and the skinny guy closed the door.

  “It’s the police,” I shouted up the stairs. “I’ll be up in a few minutes, okay? You don’t have to come down.”

  “The police? What is going on?” And down the stairs she came, wrapped in a white terrycloth robe. “I said, what is going on?”

  “Honey. This is Lieutenant Tommy Quinn. I know him from way back. And this is…?” I was talking to Quinn, but I was looking at the tall guy, who was standing in the kitchen grinning at Amanda.

  “Detective Isaac Rawlson,” Quinn said. “Say hello to Harry and Mrs. Starke.”

  Oh. I almost grinned. Mrs. Starke. That’s a first.

  The detective stuck out his hand toward Amanda. “Pleased t’meet you, ma’am.”

  She wrinkled her nose and slowly held out her hand, holding her robe closed at the neck with the other.

  “You too, I think,” she replied.

  “Look, Tommy,” I said. “I appreciate the visit, but we got married less than six hours ago. So come on. Tell me what you want, and then get outa here.”

  “Can we sit?”

  “Hell no we can’t sit. Tell me what you want and then go. Hell, Tommy, you can even come back this evening and join us for a drink if you want. Bring… whatever this guy’s name is with you. If not, I’ll—that is, we’ll—meet you both for a drink in a couple of days.”

  “Harry,” Quinn said finally. “Do you know who Leopold Martan is?”

  “Martan… no, I don’t think… so. Wait a minute, do you mean the industrialist?”

  Quinn nodded.

  “Not really. He’s a friend of my father’s. He’s in pharmaceuticals, owns Gentech Biomedic, but that’s about all I know.” My father had defended his company in a lawsuit some ten or twelve years ago, but I’d never even met the guy. “Why do you want to know?”

  “There’s been a death, Harry. Martan knows you’re here and he’s asked for—well, he’s insisting that you be brought in. The chief’s having a goddamn fit, but the man wields a big stick around here. He owns most of the real estate on the island, including this resort, and he donates a lot of money to a lot of good causes so… he usually gets what he wants.”

  “Okay. So what does he—”

  “Harry, no,” Amanda said. “It’s our wedding day, for God’s sake.” She turned angrily to Quinn. “Go away.”

  Quinn looked at me helplessly.

  I heaved a huge sigh. “I’ll listen, but that’s all—”

  “Ugh!” Amanda whirled and stomped up the stairs.

  Well, okay. But what was I supposed to do? “Tommy,” I said, “by God this had better be good.”

  It was good. Well, no—it was bad. Very bad. Martan’s twenty-four-year-old daughter had been found on the rocks, dead, forty feet below her bedroom window less than three hours earlier. Quinn and his partner had been called in and had arrived on the island via helicopter less than an hour ago.

  “I told Martan I thought it was either an accident or… suicide?” Quinn screwed up his face.

  I didn’t answer. I stared at him. I knew what was coming.

  “The old man’s having none of it. He’s insisting she was murdered and that you….” He trailed off when he saw me shaking my head. “Yeah,” he sighed, getting to his feet. “I can’t say as I blame you, but I promised I’d ask. Sorry for the intrusion. Maybe I’ll take you up on that drink a little later.”

  Except then there was another knock on my front door, and once again that sixth sense of mine kicked in and the bottom dropped out of my stomach.

  Oh hell, here they are.

  And they were. I opened the front door and my father, August, walked in, followed by a man who could only have been Leo Martan.

  He was of medium build, maybe five foot ten. His white hair and aquiline features reminded me of those busts you see of Julius Caesar.

  “Harry,” August said, glancing at Quinn and the other cop. “I assume you’ve been apprised of the situation. This is Leo—”

  “Stop! Stop right there. I know who he is and why you’re both here, and you can forget it.” I glanced up the stairs. Amanda was standing on the landing, arms folded, listening.

  “Dad, this is my wedding day, for Christ’s sake. I don’t want to do this. I want to spend time with Amanda, and with you, with the people I love. I’ve spent my life working one murder after another. Give me a f… give me a break, will you, please?”

  “Mr. Starke.” It was Martan who spoke. “I understand how you feel, and I respect that, but I have just lost my only daughter and this man—” he waved his hand at Quinn “—is telling me it was suicide, or even an accident, and with respect, I know she didn’t commit suicide, and the balcony rail is too high for her to simply have fallen over it.”

  I listened to him, all the while shaking my head. I looked at my father. He stared back at me, and I knew what he was thinking.

  “Mr. Starke,” Martan said. “She’s still out there, on the rocks. I wouldn’t let them move her until you’d seen her. All I ask is that you take a look; tell this man it was not suicide. An hour, two at the most. Please.”

  “Go on, Harry.” I hadn’t heard Amanda come back down the stairs. “The man needs help. We have two weeks. Two hours won’t hurt, and you’ll be back here in time for dinner.”

  “Nope. This time I draw the line. I made you a promise, Amanda, and I intend to keep it. I’m sorry, Mr. Martan, but—”

  “Harry,” August said. “Do it for me. I owe this man, and even though you don’t know it, so do you.”

  “What? What the hell are you talking about? I’ve never met him before in my life.”

  “But I have, and so did your mother. In fact, he’s responsible for her living as long as she did. You do owe him. We both do. Now go take a look, for God’s sake. Amanda’s said she doesn’t mind.”

  I looked at her, and she lifted her chin toward the door. “Go on. I’ll still be here when you get back.”

  And that’s how it all began. Reluctantly, I climbed the stairs, splashed water on my face, and dressed in a pair of lightweight linen pants and a sports shirt.

  “Okay,” I said, once I’d come downstairs again. “A quick look. And that is it.” And then I walked quickly to the front door and out into the afternoon sunshine.

  Chapter 2

  Saturday, November 12, 4pm

  The ride out only took a few minutes: a mile along the main road, then a sharp right through the electronic gates, and up the hill to the massive structure that the Martans called home. We’re talking three stories and maybe fifteen bedrooms. It would, in another time, have been a fortress.

  The view to the right of the winding driveway, of the south side of the island and the ocean, was breathtaking. The great house stood on a natural rock formation, almost like a medieval motte, that fell away from the foundations in a gentle slope for maybe four or five hundred feet to a pristine golf course, which circled around the edge of the property.

  We were no more than halfway to the house when I spotted the square white tent on the rocks below, several uniforms and Tyvek-covered techs working around it. T
here was also a private helicopter parked at the rear.

  “Looks like you have some help anyway, Tommy,” I said. It looked like this would indeed be a short visit; I would soon be on my way back to Amanda.

  “They arrived from St. Thomas not long after we did. Harry, I’m really pleased you’ve agreed to… okay, okay, I know how you feel, but let me say this. It was either a suicide or an accident. There’s no doubt in my mind. Other than the damage caused by the impact, she’s clean; there’s not a mark on her that I could see. You’ll see.”

  I nodded, and turned to stare up at the huge home. It was a modern structure: lots of glass and concrete. The south side had been designed to take full advantage of the spectacular view—three stories, four balconies, two over two over a ground-floor patio that stretched the entire length of the south side. The top right balcony, the one nearest us as we approached the house, appeared to be the one from which Gabrielle Martan had taken her final flight.

  Quinn parked the car in front of the house, the Range Rover carrying Leo Martan and my father pulling up behind. Together, the five of us walked the short distance to where the techs were working. There was tape up, of course, but no officers standing guard; the property was so isolated that they weren’t needed.

  “This way,” Quinn said as he ducked under the tape.

  I followed; Leo Martan and my father stayed outside the perimeter.

  “Mind if we suit up?” I asked one of the techs. She shrugged, more or less ignoring me in favor of whatever she was concentrating on. There was a large cardboard box full of one-size-fits-all Tyvek coveralls, and a smaller box full of booties, facemasks, and latex gloves. We donned suits, booties, and gloves.

  Inside the tent, a woman of indeterminate age—those coveralls—was on her knees, bent over the body.

  “Dr. Jane Matheson?” Quinn said. “This is Mr. Harry Starke.”

  The woman turned and looked at me, and I could see, even with the mask on, that she was probably in her mid-thirties. She rose, turned, and offered me a latex-covered hand; her grip was strong and sure.