"You're going to tell me it was Marshal, right?"
"Exactly, and that was long before the dynamic duo of senior and junior had the parting of their ways. According to everything we can uncover, it was young Marshal who made the arrangements with Zercher for the lease of the old research facility."
"Next you're going to tell me they've since become bosom buddies."
''Wrong. Quite the contrary. No apparent contact, no nothing — until now."
"So what does that do to your little theory?"
"Obviously, there has to be a go-between, a connection."
"Like who?"
"That's one I can't answer, but there is a name — a rather nasty little man by the name of one Chauncey Packer. So far we haven't been able to prove any of this, and that, dear Elliott, is why Hannah baby is really a part of the Prometheus team."
"So what about Bearing? Does he know all of this?"
"Of course not." Hannah stood up on her toes and gave me a peck on the cheek. "And you're not going to tell him either — right?"
It was a little after six when Hannah and I walked into the bar at Rick's. The fair Ms. Holbrook, for all her obvious qualities and striking good looks, didn't elicit quite the same kind of reaction Maggie Chrysler did. Maggie and Gibby were in the same league, the kind of main attraction that turns men's heads and turns women green with envy.
Mookie was behind the bar doing his thing, but he was nowhere near as effusive as he had been when he was drooling over the fair Ms. Chrysler.
"Elliott," he said, grinning, "see you made it back from never-never land." He leaned over the bar, gave me the once over and stepped back. "Looks like everything is still in place."
I introduced Hannah, and when she locked onto him with those intense brown eyes of hers, he started his delayed meltdown.
"How about it? Ever find Crompton?"
I nodded, ordered a Black and White on crushed ice and waited while Hannah decided on a perfect Manhattan. "Crompton is dead," I said flatly.
The news stopped Mookie in his tracks. He stopped pouring, set the bottle down and stared at me. "Sweet Jesus, Elliott! When? How?"
Hannah wrapped her long fingers around the glass and avoided looking at either of us.
"Can't tell you when, but he died in the Garl, eighty feet down. The fish didn't leave us much on which to base conclusions."
Mookie looked like he had seen a ghost. He began idly wiping off the bar in front of us, his eyes slightly clouded. "I can't believe it," he muttered. "Cromp was one helluva diver. People always said he was one of the best around. It ain't like him to do something dumb down there and get himself into a situation he couldn't get out of."
"Tell me about your friend," Hannah said softly. "How did this all come about?"
"It's like I told Elliott. There was this white cat in here asking a lot of questions. He said he was looking for a topnotch diver. When somebody says they want a good diver around these parts, me and everybody else automatically thinks of Crompton. So I put them in touch with each other. Cromp got the job, was gone a few days, and then he was back with a big fistful of money. He hung around here a few days, buying everybody drinks and spending his bread like there was no tomorrow. Then all of a sudden this white cat shows up again. He tells Cromp their project has hit a snag and that he needs him back again. Cromp went home, packed a few things, came back by here, had one last drink and the two of them left together. I haven't seen Cromp since. Now I know why."
"Does this so-called white cat have any other name?" I asked.
Mookie gave me the standard Jamaican shoulder shrug and shook his head. "Come on, E.G., you know damn well how many tourists troop in and out of these doors every night. There ain't no way I can know them all. Besides, they have to come here. If you haven't seen the sun sink into the ocean at Rick's, you ain't been to Negril."
"Can you remember anything about the guy?"
Mookie rolled his moist brown eyes and pursed his lips. A sly smile began to play with the corners of his mouth, and he shook his head. "All you white dudes look the same to me, mon." He winked at Hannah and quickly added, "But not all white chicks."
"Look, Mookie, try to remember. Did he run up a tab or have a big dinner party? Did he charge anything?" Hannah was doing her best to jog the man's memory.
Mookie appeared to be drawing a blank until a long-legged local walked into the bar and sat down at the far end. She was a stunner. She ordered a gin and tonic, crossed her perfectly proportioned pins for my viewing pleasure and gave me a none too subtle warm, wet and inviting smile. Only then did Mookie's face light up. "Bluebell," he muttered to himself, "sure… Bluebell!" He disappeared down the bar, had a quick conversation with the lady and returned with her in tow.
"Elliott, Ms. Holbrook, I'd like you to meet Bluebell Saint James."
Bluebell Saint James fit the universal description of all beautiful women. Her skin was the color of warm, polished mahogany and she had inviting nut-brown eyes, perfectly positioned in a symmetrical face that featured exquisitely chiseled cheek bones, a full sensuous mouth and jet black hair pulled tautly into a bun at the nape of her neck. She extended a brown hand with dagger-tipped fingernails that had been symbolically dipped in vivid crimson. Even Hannah did the old double take.
I invited the lady to join us and offered her a seat at the bar, while Hannah did a slow burn.
"Bluebell here met the guy that hired Crompton," Mookie volunteered.
"Chauncey Packer," Bluebell said, almost instantaneously.
Hannah made a sound like the air was rushing out of her. "Kinda short, blond hair, combed to one side, barrel-chested, walks like a rooster?"
Bluebell nodded. "That's the guy, honey, meaner than a snake. Every time we danced he had his nose buried between my tits."
"Is that the only time you saw him?"
Bluebell shook her head. "Just once the first time. Then when he came back to hire Crompton, I saw him again."
Hannah was into it. "Did he talk at all about why he hired Crompton?"
The lady gave Mookie a long questioning look, and he responded with a subtle nod that apparently gave Bluebell all the assurance she needed.
"Yeah, he talked about it." She paused just long enough to pull out a little brown cigarette, tap it a couple of times on the bar, light it and slowly exhale a sweet blue-gray cloud of smoke. As an afterthought, she added, "Want a stick?"
Hannah shook her head. "You were telling us about Chauncey."
Bluebell's creamy brown eyes drifted partially shut while the first wave of the ganja crept through her lungs. "Funny about men like Packer," she said in a monotone. "You learn to know what to expect — snappy clothes, gold chains, manicured fingernails, big bank roll. Bottom line is they stink up the bedroom. I could've laid there and done my nails, let out an occasional moan and the little bastard would've been tickled pink."
"I'm really not interested in Mr. Packer's capacities," Hannah bristled. "I'm much more interested in what he talked about."
Bluebell Saint James took another drag of her sugar stick and went on. "There I am, doing my number on this guy, and he's laying there babbling about how bad he fucked up his assignment."
"Wanta clarify that?" I asked.
Bluebell gave me the impression she was trying to clear away some pretty old cobwebs. "Well, the way I got it, when Crompton located this old wreck of a ship or something, the guy figured that was enough, paid Crompton off and sent him packing. Then when he sent his own crew down they couldn't get whatever it was they were after. So Packer tired to blast a hole in the thing. Problem was it just scattered whatever it was he was looking for all over the place."
"I don't think I understand," Hannah replied.