Stolen Sommer: Nora Sommer Caribbean Suspense - Book Two Read online

  STOLEN SOMMER

  NORA SOMMER CARIBBEAN SUSPENSE - BOOK TWO

  NICHOLAS HARVEY

  CONTENTS

  Prologue

  1. Taking Other People’s Things

  2. Drinking Problem

  3. Everybody Lies

  4. Annoyingly Admirable

  5. Stirring up the Past

  6. Olive Branch

  7. Gathering Momentum

  8. Stevie Wonder Paint Job

  9. Decisions

  10. Hiding Something

  11. Dog City

  12. Going Nowhere

  13. Carts and Horses

  14. 10,000 Combinations

  15. Nowhere to Hide

  16. Blown to Smithereens

  17. A Few Ponies Short

  18. No More Mountain to Climb

  19. Different Rules

  20. Nod’s as Good as a Wink…

  21. Ingrid

  22. First out of the Longboat

  23. Laundry Chute

  24. Ace in the Hole

  25. No Stone Unturned

  26. Andre the Giant

  27. Kimi who?

  28. No Do Overs

  29. Remote

  30. Going Underground

  31. Rabbit

  32. Chicken and Egg

  33. The Second Safe

  34. Bull in the China Shop

  35. Spilled Nuts

  36. A Lifeboat for One

  37. Spoilt Milk

  38. Shaking Hands and Accepting Awards

  39. Incoherent Blathering

  40. Cryptic BS

  41. Too Many Words

  42. Alarm Bells

  43. Unbalanced

  Acknowledgments

  Let’s Stay in Touch!

  About the Author

  Copyright © 2022 by Harvey Books, LLC

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Printed in the United States of America

  First Printing, 2022

  Cover design: Covered by Melinda

  Cover photograph of model: Drew McArthur

  Cover model: Lucinda Gray

  Editor: Andrew Chapman at Prepare to Publish

  Author photograph: Lift Your Eyes Photography

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner unless noted otherwise. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. Patti Weaver’s name is used with permission in a fictional manner.

  DEDICATION

  This book is for the Rains family.

  Thank you all for your love and support.

  PROLOGUE

  Human beings take things from each other. It’s been that way since cavemen clubbed each other over the head for the last rat carcass sizzling on the fire. Survival may have been the original motivation, but as man has evolved, his reasons for taking someone else’s crap have expanded. Greed and power have long since been the primary forces behind individuals – and nations – losing their precious possessions to their neighbours. But occasionally, a unique motivation drives someone into risking their livelihood, and their freedom.

  1

  TAKING OTHER PEOPLE’S THINGS

  Residential security systems had come a long way in recent times. Hollywood loved to portray tech-savvy thieves with futuristic gismos tapping into an access point and foiling the high-dollar electronics. As it turns out, the alarm people aren’t stupid enough to put the control units outside of the alarmed area. Artistic licence works in movies, but not in real life. Regardless, once Fernando had picked the lock on the side door of the beachfront mansion, he walked right in.

  He stood in what the estate agent likely called a ‘boot room’. In this case, an area the size of most people’s living rooms where the homeowners and guests could clean up before entering the main house. Shining his torch to one side, he saw a large shower and bathroom area akin to a health club locker room.

  Fernando took a pair of shoe covers from his rucksack and slipped them over his black trainers. The blue polypropylene distinct in its contrast to his black trousers, long-sleeved turtleneck shirt, and balaclava. The air conditioning inside the house was a welcome relief from the balmy Caribbean night. He glanced up at a red light, just below the ceiling in the corner of the room. He guessed the camera had low light sensitivity, but the resolution would be poor, giving little away.

  Through the doorway, he entered one end of a long kitchen. Before him stretched an open-plan expanse encompassing the dining area, living room, and some kind of bar and games room. Fernando switched off his torch. Subtle mood lighting cast a pale blue glow, accenting meticulously placed furniture and design features. The effect was stunning. He wondered what kind of ego spent that much money for the benefit of anyone who happened to pass by on a boat. It was only visible from the ocean through floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Caribbean Sea. He glanced around. Everything about the home reeked of luxury, opulence and excess.

  Two wide, curved, open-riser metal and dark wood stairways wrapped around the back of the living room, going up to a balcony which spanned the area like a bridge overlooking the ground floor below. Fernando hurried up the steps, noting several more discreetly placed cameras. Grinning to himself, he wished he’d faked a limp or some other obvious physical attribute. As he walked along the bridge towards the master bedroom, he glanced down to his left, where the open foyer ended with arched double entry doors.

  The bedroom took up the whole east section of the first floor. The same full-length windows presented what Fernando imagined being a magnificent view of the ocean. In the darkness, soft lights around the pool and the ironshore coastline beyond faded quickly into blackness across the calm water. He stared for a few moments, looking for boat lights, but saw none.

  Switching his torch on once again, he kept the beam low and away from the windows. Looking around the room, he verified the bedroom didn’t have any security cameras. At the back of the room were two arched doorways. Fernando opened the door to the right with a gloved hand and shone his light around. It was the biggest bathroom he’d ever seen. He closed the door and moved to the second option. This door opened to an equally large dressing area and walk-in closet. Although closet was a misleading term. Clothing store perhaps. He wondered how anyone could remember the clothes they owned with such a collection.

  Quickly entering the room, he moved to the left, leaning over a purple couch, and carefully pulled on the end of a sturdy picture frame containing an original Wyland painting. The artwork swung away from the wall, hinged from the opposite end. Fernando took a headlamp from his rucksack, turned it on, and slipped it over his head. He glanced over his shoulder and saw the telltale red light of a security camera in the opposite corner. He checked over his other shoulder and made sure there weren’t any more. There weren’t, as he’d been briefed. Moving slightly to his left, he blocked the camera’s view with his body as he set about opening the wall-mounted safe.

  The home’s security system was elaborate and very expensive, so unsurprisingly the safe was of similar quality. Two-foot square, the thick metal door looked dauntingly impenetrable. Fernando felt a bead of sweat running down his back despite the cool, heavily air-conditioned room. His nerves were more settled than during his first job, but the next few seconds would determine everything. If he couldn’t open the safe, then
as hard as he’d tried, he knew a trail of clues had been added for the authorities to follow, for nothing.

  Fernando held his breath while he tapped on the keypad of the digital lock. Hesitantly, he tugged on the handle, and the door swung open. Relief flooded through his body, and he fought back the urge to yell and raise his arms in victory. Don’t give the camera anything useful, he reminded himself as he began pulling items from the safe.

  Time is the first enemy of a burglar. Minimum time inside was the golden rule, so he knew he shouldn’t sort through the items. But he did anyway. Carefully shielding his wrist from the camera, he pulled back a sleeve and glanced at his watch. 9:16pm. He had fourteen more minutes until his drop-dead time. Fernando continued dividing the contents of the safe, scattering them across the couch and putting only the items he wanted into his bag.

  He barely heard the distant sound of a garage door opening over the low drone of the air conditioning. Fernando froze. The massive three-car garage was a separate building, with the owner’s office above. Was someone arriving home early, or was the sound coming from a neighbour? He couldn’t tell from inside the dressing room.

  Leaving his rucksack, he rushed into the bedroom, where a window overlooked the courtyard. One of the garage doors was closing behind the tail of a red Porsche, and an elegantly dressed lady in her forties walked towards the house.

  Fernando ran back into the dressing room and hurriedly shoved two more small jewellery boxes in his bag before slinging the rucksack over his shoulder. He scrambled from the closet and out of the bedroom door to the bridge. Below, he heard the digital beeps of the front door code being entered on the keypad. Realising he didn’t have time to make it downstairs, he sprinted across the bridge to the other side of the balcony, where guest rooms were located.

  The front door opened, and the woman stepped inside, humming an upbeat tune to herself. She closed and locked the door before heading for the kitchen and dropping her handbag on the island counter. From his position in the shadows above, Fernando could see the woman until she went to the fridge, built into custom cabinets directly below him. She was an attractive lady with auburn hair and a shapely figure, well presented in a form-fitting designer dress.

  He watched her walk towards the bar and game room area, trying not to stare at her backside and keep his focus. She flicked on a light in the bar, rolled a ball across the pool table as she walked by, and began making herself a drink. Fernando realised that when she was done, she’d be walking back in his direction and, with the slightest glance up, he’d be seen. Treading as softly as possible, he made for the stairs which would lead him back into the dead centre of the living room.

  She was beyond his view around the corner in the bar, but he had no way of knowing when she’d re-emerge. At the bottom step, he heard a pool ball rolling across the felt and careening into another ball, the clunk echoing around the house. Knowing she was coming back, he slid behind a huge pillowy U-shaped couch. Crouching, he tried to calm his breathing. What would she do next? Either sit on the couch or head upstairs to change, he imagined. At some point she would set the alarm in ‘stay mode’, and once she did, he was stuck inside, or forced to disarm it before he ran. Neither option felt appealing.

  What happened next, he didn’t expect. The doorbell rang. He heard the woman set her glass down on the kitchen island, her gleeful hum returning as she padded across the tile floor. Fernando risked a peek over the couch. Without giving himself time to second-guess the decision, he stood and briskly walked across the living room as the woman continued towards the entry. As he carefully opened the boot room door, he heard a squealed greeting as a girlfriend came inside. The voices died away as he closed the door and quietly left the house through the side where he’d entered.

  2

  DRINKING PROBLEM

  My shift ended at ten o’clock, and I was ready. It felt like a long day, because it had been. I never slept much past sunrise, so by seven that morning I’d been freediving on the reef in front of the little shack where I lived. The rest of the morning I’d spent doing bullshit like laundry and cleaning. Sometimes I wished I had a dog for company, but based on my history, people close to me didn’t fare too well, so I worried the same would be true for a four-legged soul.

  The evening had been boring, with nothing of interest happening in the West Bay area. That wasn’t unusual. Grand Cayman was a quiet island at the best of times, but Tuesday nights tended to be extra dull. Most of the tourists, who didn’t care what day of the week it was, were farther south along Seven Mile Beach. The local West Bay bars, of which there were only a few, had their regulars bellied up, telling lies about their fishing conquests.

  I was happy to sit in silence as we drove around, but my partner, Jacob Tibbetts, liked to chat. We get along really well and I enjoy working with him, but people’s obsession with mindless banter confuses me. More accurately, it annoys me. All these stories about his wife, kids, and family were very pleasant, but am I supposed to remember all these details? People burden each other with all this crap and then expect the friend to recall their kid’s football score from two weeks ago. I have enough shit to remember.

  “How’s the family?”

  “Good, thanks.”

  See? Perfect. I was interested in their welfare, and now I know they’re fine.

  “How’s the family?”

  “My kid broke his leg jumping off the roof.”

  “Cool.” I like kids that don’t sit around playing on their mobile phones.

  Also fine. I can remember to ask about his kid’s leg in a few days. Of course, I wouldn’t have to, as Jacob would keep me informed with a daily commentary on who signed the cast and how the kid gets about on crutches. Jacob’s kid hadn’t broken a leg, but it makes a good example. I’d really feel like shit if his kid broke a leg now.

  ‘Careful what you wish for’ is the phrase in English I believe. At 9:40pm we got the call from dispatch about a disturbance at Benny’s Bar and Grill. We were at the north end of Watercourse Road, only a mile away, so we responded. Benny’s was little more than a shack with a covered porch area alongside. They served tasty local dishes with fried fish, and in the evenings their patrons liked to stab and shoot each other. Not often, but if trouble happened in West Bay, odds were it was at Benny’s.

  As with most brawls, by the time we arrived it was all over. On TV, men face off and trade blows for ten minutes, whaling on each other. That’s not how it usually works unless the fight is between a couple of UFC contenders. A punch or two is thrown, and it’s over with. Generally, if we’re called, it’s because neither of the pugilists has left, so a general disturbance continues with little actual fighting.

  As Jacob parked out front, we could see the place wasn’t busy, but one guy was outside, slumped against the waist-high lattice work which bordered the porch. I couldn’t tell if that was his usual spot at the end of the evening, or he’d been beaten into that position. As soon as we got out of our patrol car, the barman approached us.

  He waved his arms around and did a lot of pointing while blathering about the incident. I didn’t understand a word. I was slowly picking up more of the locals’ heavily accented dialect, but this guy was talking too fast for me to follow. They spoke English, and I’m fluent in my second language, but Jacob still had to translate for me.

  “He says dere’s a crazy white guy inside dat punched this fella and now he won’t leave.”

  I looked at the local man slumped against the lattice work. Now I was closer, I could see blood coming from a cut above his left eye. “Check on this one and I’ll go inside,” I told Jacob.

  He looked at me sternly.

  “I do white and crazy,” I assured him and didn’t wait for him to argue.

  Benny’s didn’t blow their expenses on lighting. Under the covered porch was dingy and smelled of fried food and beer. My boots made disgusting sticky noises with each step. Two locals sat at one table to my right and they nodded their heads towards the
only other person in the bar. He was a small man, pushing forty by my estimate, scruffy, unshaven, and staring at me.

  “Jordy?” I asked, recognising the face and trying to recall his name.

  “Jonty,” he mumbled in reply. “And who are you, sweetheart?”

  His northern English accent was slightly slurred, as though he was a bit tipsy, but he had the look of a professional drinker. Judging by the array of empty beer bottles on the table, he’d either had company or fifty per cent of his bloodstream contained alcohol.

  “Constable Sommer,” I responded. “I hear you had a disagreement with the fella outside.”

  Jonty shook his head. “Nah.”

  “The barman says you hit the guy,” I persisted.

  “Aye,” he replied, his mouth curling into a slight grin. “I did that. But it were in ’ere, not out there.”

  “So you did punch the man?”

  “We had a debate,” he explained, looking up at me through tired, bloodshot eyes. “Then he tripped and his head hit on my fist. But I think we resolved our differences, love.”