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  “But she created this baby,” Lily said. “They couldn’t take that away from her.”

  “The one thing she had accomplished,” Mia said. “And then she messes that up, too.”

  “And it’s too much for her to take,” Lily said. “The last in a long string of disappointments.”

  “You know we’re with a writer,” Winston said.

  “So where is the baby, Brandon?” Mia said. “Do they have any idea?”

  “I think they is Brandon,” Lily said. She smiled at him, switched legs, a little flirty now. The wine, Brandon thought.

  “Just tracking down leads,” he said.

  “I just figured it was one of those custody things, you know?” Mia said. “The dad decided he’d grab the kid and take off. Is that what they think?”

  “Still checking things out,” Brandon said. “The chief had a press conference, looking for tips from the public.”

  “So they don’t know anything,” Winston said.

  Brandon looked at him, didn’t answer.

  “Oh, I know,” Lily said. “You can’t talk because it’s a—what do they call it? An ongoing investigation.”

  “Very good,” Brandon said.

  He said, “Great seeing you,” and headed for the ladder. When he turned to go down, he glanced back, saw Lily watching him over her glass. He heard Mia saying, “Is that the saddest thing you’ve ever heard? The baby disappears and she jumps off the bridge. What if they find the baby tomorrow?”

  “And then he has no mom,” Lily said. “How could she do that?”

  Good question, Brandon thought as he started down the ladder. He pictured Chantelle, the look of utter devastation on her cracked-out face when it had sunk in that the baby was gone. He stopped, his head above the deck. He heard Lily, a little drunk and loud, say, “I’ve got it. She knew the baby was dead. And she couldn’t keep up the lie.”

  Then Mia, “I’ll bet it’s tiring to live a lie like that.”

  And Winston, “I’m sure it would be. Just you and your secret, all alone.”

  They all drank and chatted, like it was a TV show they were discussing, Brandon thought. He continued down the ladder, down, down, down.

  Rendezvous was on Exchange Street, just up from the Regency. The walls were brick, the lighting muted, the dozen tables black lacquer. Paintings on the wall were seascapes, but almost abstract, vivid blues and greens.

  “The artist, he’s from Bridgetown,” Winston was saying, his dark eyes glittering in the candlelight. “We grew up together. When we were decorating, I called him. I said, ‘Man, I need a touch of the island. Send me what you got.’ Barko, he sends me these paintings, crates of them. We’ve sold five already. I just keep putting up new ones.”

  They were on coffee, dark and strong. Dinner had been Bajan Barbadian, Winston disappearing into the kitchen. He was gone for forty-five minutes, Mia sipping wine, Lily a rum punch, Brandon, a carry gun in his waistband, a sparkling water.

  Winston returned to the table followed by a waitress who handed around the plates: fried flying fish on cutter, a Barbadian salt bread. Rice and peas in a spicy mix, sweet potato cou-cou—everything flavored with chives and pepper and garlic.

  “Delicious,” Brandon said.

  “Simple,” Winston said. “That is the secret of Barbadian cuisine, just as it is Barbadian life. Simple but with the spice of life.”

  “It really is,” Lily said. “It’s like a different time there. Not like the other islands. It’s peaceful and kind of quaint. Like where Winston grew up.”

  “Rendezvous,” Winston said. “Like the name of the restaurant. Little place about four kilometers outside of Bridgetown. Wildlife sanctuary there—that place is like paradise. Adam and Eve could live there.”

  “Then why did you leave?” Mia said.

  “Oh, us island people, we like to wander, you know. And you’re living on the big wide ocean. It—what is the word?”

  “Beckons?” Brandon said.

  “Yes, perfect,” Winston said. “Beckons. Hey, you know there’s a place north of Bridgetown, it’s called Brandon’s Beach.”

  “Oh, Brandon,” Mia said, leaning over and putting her arm around him. “We have to go. You can tell us where to stay, Winston. Or maybe we could all go.”

  Lily looked at Winston, touched his hand.

  “That would be fun,” she said, “But you know my favorite is Barbuda, off of Antigua? It’s just so undeveloped. I mean, there are resorts and golf and all that, but once you get away from—”

  “Mr. Kelley?”

  They looked up. A woman had gotten up from a table across the room and was coming toward them. “Mr. Kelley, so nice to see you again.”

  Winston smiled. “I don’t think we’ve—”

  “Oh, you look wonderful. I like the shaved-head thing—but what happened to those beautiful dreadlocks?”

  Winston smiled, shot a glance at Lily.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am. I’m afraid I’m not the person you’re thinking I am.”

  “This is Winston Clarke,” Lily said.

  The woman—in her seventies, carefully made up, white hair swept back under a tortoiseshell headband—looked puzzled. She glanced back at her husband, silver-haired, studying the wine list. “Oh, I’m so sorry. You look just like a fellow we knew. You even sound like him. We met on a cruise. You’re not Alston Kelley? With an E? Who worked on the Ocean Princess?”

  “No, ma’am. I’d like to go on a cruise, but I have to stay here, run the restaurant.”

  “You own this?”

  “Well, yes. But sometimes I think it owns me.”

  Winston grinned. The woman smiled, relieved that he was being so gracious.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry to have bothered you. You really could be Mr. Kelley’s twin. He’s from Jamaica.”

  “Winston is from Barbados,” Lily said.

  “Oh, the accent, I was sure—”

  “Oh, now I am truly insulted, if you say I have a Jamaican accent.”

  The woman looked chagrined again but Winston reached out, touched her arm. “Just joking,” he said. “But actually, Jamaican is a very different sound. We speak Bajan patois; it is West African and English, all blended up.”

  “And Jamaican is more Irish- or Scottish-based,” Brandon said.

  “Oh, really,” Lily said. “How do you know that?”

  “Brandon reads a lot,” Mia said. “You never know what he’s going to come out with.”

  “Your husband, he’s going to order wine?” Winston said to the woman. “You tell him I’ll have something special sent over. Because I disappointed you that I was not your friend.”

  “Oh, that’s not necessary,” the woman said.

  “Oh, but my dear,” Winston said, “I insist.” He got up and put his big arm on her back, guiding her back toward her table. “It is Barbadian hospitality. You see? You didn’t find your old friend, but you made a new one.”

  There was dessert, cou-cou flavored with peppers and chocolate. Then a rum liqueur from Martinique, Winston asking if they could taste the Creole spices. They could. Brandon abstained.

  A long good-bye followed, full of promises to get together soon, to go for a boat excursion on Bay Witch (Mia talking), Lily launching into a story about people she knew who, once they were offshore, always sailed naked. The three of them laughed. Brandon smiled.

  “Is Bay Witch clothing-optional?” Lily said, looking to Brandon.

  “Suit yourself,” Brandon said. “I tend to bring an extra fleece. Cold out there.”

  “Party pooper,” Lily said, giving him the flirty look again. He took Mia’s arm, started to steer her toward the door. They passed the older couple, who looked to Winston and raised their glasses. “Thank you,” the woman said, her gaze lingering. “It’s very, very nice.”

  Outside it was cool, damp, smelled of the harbor. Brandon took Mia’s arm and she snuggled close to him. The rum?

  “Well, that was fun,” she said. “I really l
ike them.”

  Brandon hesitated for a minute.

  “Yes,” he said. “It was a nice time.”

  “You didn’t mind not drinking? I hope we weren’t too silly for you. You looked so serious sometimes.”

  “Just a little tired.”

  “I know you’ve got a lot on your mind,” Mia said as they walked down the hill toward Commercial Street and the car. “But baby, you’ve got to be able to shut it out. Otherwise, this job’s going to eat you up.”

  She was right, Brandon thought, but how did you leave the baby behind? Chantelle?

  “I know,” he said. “But this one, it’s just—”

  They were overtaking another couple, the guy big and barrel-chested, the woman in a tight skirt, high heels. She wobbled on the cobblestones like someone on stilts crossing a rocky streambed. Mia and Brandon slowed.

  “Oh, I was so embarrassed for that poor woman, thought she knew Winston,” Mia said. “You know, the whole They all look the same thing. But Winston handled it so well. He’s really very charming, don’t you think?”

  Brandon, listening to the couple in front of them, didn’t answer.

  “You were all over him,” the guy was saying.

  “I never touched him. Tommy, what are you talking about?”

  “I could see the looks. Why didn’t you just jump on his fucking lap?”

  “I don’t know what your goddamn problem is. I hadn’t seen the guy since high school, for God’s sake.”

  “Musta been in the backseat of a car.”

  “You’re paranoid. Maybe you ought to get some help.”

  They’d turned the corner onto Commercial. The guy yanked the woman into a doorway, out of view.

  “I’ll give you some help,” he muttered.

  “Let go of me,” the woman said.

  Then a slap, followed by another and another. The woman cried out, started to whimper. When Brandon and Mia came to the doorway she was hunched against the wall, hands over her face. The guy had his arm cocked, fist clenched.

  “Hey,” Brandon said. “Stop it.”

  “Keep walking, asshole,” the guy said, glancing at Brandon. Even in the dark he was red-faced, drunk.

  “Nope,” Brandon said. He moved Mia away to the curb, turned as the woman tried to squirm loose. The guy punched her in the back of the head and she yelped, stumbled, fell to her knees. As she started to sob, he lifted her by the shoulder, raised his arm again.

  “Police officer,” Brandon said. “That’s enough.”

  “And I’m the fucking SWAT team, dickhead,” the guy said. “Get lost.”

  Brandon moved between them, yanked the guy’s arm off the woman’s wrist. She tottered away. The guy jerked his arm back, said, “You are so dead.”

  He was big but heavy and drunk and slow. The punch was a big roundhouse right and Brandon stepped inside it, grabbed the wrist with both hands, and twisted. He spun the guy out onto the sidewalk, kicked a leg out from under him, and put him down on the pavement on his belly with a thud and a grunt. The guy tried to writhe away, but Brandon jammed the guy’s right arm up until he felt the tendons start to stretch. He put his knee between the guy’s legs and pinned him to the sidewalk with a forearm to the back of his neck.

  “You’re breaking my arm!” the guy bellowed. “Get off me!”

  At the academy they’d done it a thousand times—the other cadets fighting back, in better shape than this chump.

  “Call 9-1-1,” Brandon told Mia, and she grabbed her phone from her bag.

  The guy bellowed again, said, “My arm’s broke. My fucking arm.”

  “Don’t resist,” Brandon barked, and he kept him pinned, his cheek pressed to the cobblestones, blood running from his nose, bumped when he hit the ground. Another couple approached, four college guys behind them.

  “Get off him, dude,” one kid said.

  “I’m a police officer,” Brandon barked. “Stay back.”

  “You’re hurting the guy, man,” another kid said.

  The big guy beneath him bellowed again, said, “I’m not resisting. I’m not fucking resisting.”

  “Let him go,” a woman shrieked. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “Hey, he’s got a gun,” her boyfriend said.

  “What’s this, some undercover cop thing?” a college kid said.

  “Oh, my God,” the guy’s girlfriend said, moving closer, her slapped face pink in the streetlight. “Stop it. Just stop it.”

  They all started to move closer. “Back off,” Brandon shouted.

  “If you’re a cop, this is police brutality,” one of the college guys said, holding up his phone and filming.

  “They’re coming,” Mia said.

  A cruiser swung onto Commercial from Franklin Street, blue lights flashing. Another came around the corner, roared up, and swung in. The crowd turned.

  “Everybody back,” a cop said over the PA. And then they were there, four of them, patrolman Vargas moving in, snapping cuffs on the big guy.

  “This son of a bitch assaulted me,” the big guy said. “I want to press charges.”

  “Domestic violence assault,” Brandon said, on his feet, pulling his shirt down over his gun.

  “Forget it,” the woman said. “Let him go. I just want to go home.”

  “Not the way the law works, ma’am,” Vargas said. “Once there’s evidence of domestic violence assault, the perpetrator is arrested.”

  “You’re arresting him? Now? He’s gotta work in the morning, for Christ’s sake.”

  “Maybe somebody can post his bail.”

  “Bail? Oh, my God.”

  She reached into her bag, took out a phone, flipped it open. In the phone light, Brandon could see the hand marks on her cheeks.

  “Three slaps, one punch to the back of the head.”

  “You’ll do the paperwork?” Vargas said.

  “Yup.”

  The other patrolmen gathered around, the onlookers melting away as soon as the big guy was shut in the cruiser. Zachary was there; Dever; a woman officer named Shelley something, just back from having a baby.

  “Jeez, Blake,” Dever said, glancing at Mia. “Sure know how to show your lady here a good time.”

  He turned to Mia, grinned. “Honey, next week he’s gonna take you to serve some warrants.”

  “The guy was beating that woman,” Mia snapped. “What did you expect him to do?”

  “Whoa,” Dever said. “Easy there, sweetcakes.”

  “Who you calling sweetcakes?” Mia said.

  “Just kidding around. Hey, Blake, your girl’s a real pit bull. Nobody gonna bother you with her around.”

  “Let’s go,” Zachary said, touching Dever on the shoulder. “Before you wear out your welcome.”

  To Brandon he said, “You coming in now, fill out the paper-work?”

  Brandon looked at Mia, her eyes flashing in the blue strobes, her lips a thin line. “Give me twenty minutes,” he said.

  They drove in silence, up the hill, onto the bridge, past the spot where Chantelle had gone over the railing. Mia was looking out the window, her hands folded on her lap.

  “Sorry,” Brandon said.

  “It’s okay,” Mia said. “It’s not like you had a choice.”

  “But still—you were having fun. It was a nice night.”

  “I thought we’d go back to the boat and make love,” Mia said.

  “I won’t be long,” Brandon said. “Quick report and out of there.”

  He looked over at her as they came off the bridge. Her face was pale, frozen in place. Brandon stopped at the light.

  “Brandon,” Mia said finally, staring straight ahead. “Is this the way it’s going to be?”

  He glanced at her, frowned. “No,” he said. “I mean, it’s not like you can’t walk down the street around here without seeing an assault in progress. Most times, we would have just come home. Like—”

  “Like normal people?” Mia said.

  Brandon didn’t a
nswer. The light changed, and they were silent again as Brandon drove into the parking lot of the marina. He stopped the car, shut off the motor. It was quiet, but for the rustle of the water. Across the harbor lights twinkled on the skyline, slipped across the water. Brandon waited.

  “My dad says being married to a cop is worse than being one,” Mia began. “You’re always worried and there’s nothing you can do about it. Cops see all this awful stuff that they can’t leave at the office. And they have more in common with other cops than regular people so they end up having affairs and getting divorced. He says they end up with PTSD, even if they don’t know it.”

  “So what makes your dad an expert?”

  “He’s a lawyer.”

  “Right. A corporate lawyer. Mergers and acquisitions.”

  “When he was in law school they had to do criminal work,” Mia said.

  “So two weeks twenty years ago makes him an authority?” Brandon said, and caught himself.

  “He’s just worried about me, Brandon.”

  “No, he’s worried about me. Doesn’t want his daughter with her Colby College degree hooked up with some street cop.”

  “Brandon.”

  “Driving around busting crackheads, touching smelly homeless people.”

  “He respects what you do,” Mia said.

  “He just doesn’t want you to have anything to do with it.”

  “That’s not—” She hesitated.

  “Not what?” Brandon said. “Not true?”

  Mia didn’t answer.

  “It is true. He didn’t raise you to end up with somebody like me.”

  “It doesn’t matter what he thinks,” Mia said.

  “Then why’d you bring him up?”

  “I don’t know. It’s just—” She sighed. A tear rolled down her right cheek, stopped just above her chin. The trail glistened in the parking lot light. Brandon waited.

  “It’s just that I worry,” Mia said.

  “About what?”

  “I worry that I’ve lost you already. That your job will always come first. That . . . I don’t know . . .” She swallowed, wiped at the streak on her cheek. “That you’ll always be thinking about this baby, this woman on drugs, this guy you arrested, this drug dealer you got information on, this prostitute, this gang member, the crazy homeless people.”