Bermuda Schwartz by Bob Morris Page B

returning to the spot where J.J. is supposed to pick me up outside Richfield Bank, but he is parked and waiting for me. I slide into the front seat of his van.
    â€œSorry I took so long. Ran into a few problems.”
    â€œMore than just a few, by the looks of it.” J.J. eyes my blood-spattered shirt. “You going to the Mid Ocean Club like that?”
    â€œI was hoping to buy something, but all the stores are closed.”
    â€œWhat size jacket you wear?”
    â€œA forty-eight long.”
    â€œI probably got something that’ll fit. My house is on the way. Might rustle up a shirt, too.”
    â€œWell, thanks. I appreciate it.”
    â€œOh, don’t be thanking me for anything yet.”
    He raises an eyebrow, shoots a look at a rear seat. Only then do I notice the other passenger in the van—a woman, thirtyish, her long black hair pulled back tightly against her head then tied in a ponytail that just barely manages to control it. She wears a tight black T-shirt and jeans, a pair of funky red glasses.
    â€œMy niece,” J.J. says.
    â€œJaneen Hill,” the woman says. “From the
Royal Gazette”
    â€œYou were there yesterday when we found the body.”
    â€œYes,” she says. “That’s what I was hoping to talk to you about.”
    I look at J.J. He puts up a hand in protest.
    â€œWasn’t my idea,” he says. “I told her she shouldn’t be ambushing you like this.”
    â€œWhy, listen to you,” Janeen says. “You’re the one called me and told me you’d driven Mr. Chasteen downtown this afternoon. So don’t be playing Mr. High and Mighty with me.”
    J.J. mutters something, pulls the van onto the street.
    â€œHow can I help you, Ms. Hill?” I say.
    She scoots forward in the seat, pushes the glasses up on her nose. She is wound tight, ready to pounce.
    â€œNeed you to confirm something for me,” she says. “Tell me about the condition of the body when it was pulled from the water.”
    â€œI’m guessing you want to know about the eyes, right?”
    â€œYes, that.”
    â€œThey were gone,” I say. “But isn’t that common knowledge by now? Your uncle knew about it. Plenty of other people apparently did, too. Why do you need me to confirm it?”
    â€œBecause I refuse to rely on secondhand information,” Janeen says. “The rumor was floating around the newsroom last night, but there was nothing about it in the preliminary report, and the police wouldn’t comment on it, on or off the record. I refuse to allow conjecture to be a part of anything I write.”
    â€œMakes you a rare breed of journalist,” I say.
    â€œNot really. But that’s neither here nor there,” she says. “I’ve got a stake in this story.”
    â€œHow’s that?”
    She looks out the window. We’re bogged down in traffic, just creeping along.
    â€œSeven years ago, when I was just starting at the paper, I covered a story that was a lot like this one,” she says. “Two bodies were found then, both bound in similar fashion, both with their eyes missing.”
    â€œYeah, your uncle mentioned something about that,” I say. “He said the case was never solved.”
    â€œNever fully pursued is more like it. At least, not by the authorities.” There’s bitterness in her voice. “Everything died down and the police just sort of put it on a shelf and conveniently forgot about it.”
    J.J. clears his throat. He glances at Janeen in the rearview mirror.
    â€œJust because I’m letting you ride in my van doesn’t mean I need to behearing your conspiracy theories,” he says. “Talk about conjecture. I’ve heard you conject all kinds of things about what got those two men killed, Janeen.”
    â€œYes, you have. But I’ve never written about it.”
    â€œGood thing, too,” says J.J. “Because no