Dead Asleep by Jamie Freveletti Page B

particular, since he should be easy to spot.”
    â€œHow many houses are on the island?”
    â€œOne hundred, not including the hotel and various boats that dock. Since we’re past peak season now the population is shrinking daily as visitors fly home.”
    â€œNews travels fast,” Randiger added, “so don’t be surprised if most have already heard it.”
    â€œI’m actually more concerned that the neighboring island police forces get a report so that they can keep an eye out for these two,” Emma said. Once again she noticed Moore’s discomfort at the idea. “I’m not looking to kill tourism, but if you’re correct and they came from a nearby location, that seems to be an obvious choice.”
    â€œI’ll be sure to let them know if it becomes appropriate.” Moore’s face held a stubborn look, and Randiger gave Emma an apologetic glance. It was clear that notifying the authorities would be last on Moore’s list. Emma decided to let them start with the locals and work their way around.
    â€œI guess that will have to do for now,” she said.
    Randiger walked her to the door. “In the meantime, it sounds as though you’d better lock your doors and windows at night,” he said.

Chapter 8
    K emmer stood in the dark in front of his partially gutted beach house and watched the solitary beam of light on the water draw closer. The fire department had gone and the girls were asleep in the big house. He was alone. His Akita hound sat at his side. Kemmer liked the dog, but unless it could suddenly learn to do a trick that would generate mounds of cash it was going to have to find somewhere else to live. His sister was enamored of all of his dogs and owned an estate five miles away. He would send them to her. The light pulled closer and he could make out the shape of a boat drawing near. When it reached the dock the driver cut the engine and brought it alongside. Another crew member jumped lightly onto the pier and secured the boat. He nodded at Kemmer, stepped aside to allow a tall, thin man to step past him onto the boards, then retreated into the cabin, leaving Kemmer and the thin man alone on the pier. Kemmer strolled up and thrust out a hand.
    â€œWelcome to St. Martin,” he said.
    The man’s narrow face, long nose, and hard eyes matched his nickname: the Vulture. He’d been given the name by some of his corporate victims; companies whose balance sheets had turned bright red when their profits dried up in the latest downturn. The Vulture dangled the carrot of investment capital at outrageous interest rates in front of the CEOs of the struggling companies, swooped in when a company failed to make a payment, and then picked clean the assets, leaving the employees, creditors, and shareholders in the dust. Kemmer had met him several times before but always made it a point to keep his distance. Of course, that was when he’d been flush with cash and had no need of the Vulture’s bailout funds. Now, he wasn’t so lucky. Without an immediate capital infusion, the entire network of shell companies that he used to hide the fact that he was broke would come crashing down. As so famously spoken by financier Warren Buffett, when the tide goes out, one sees who is swimming naked. Kemmer was naked and shivering. The Vulture was his last hope.
    â€œWhat happened to the beach house?” the thin man asked.
    â€œA bomb.”
    â€œWas Mr. Sumner in it when it exploded?” Kemmer had no idea who Mr. Sumner was, but he wasn’t going let this man know that.
    â€œNo one was in the house.”
    â€œA pity,” the man said.
    â€œCome to the top of the hill. I have some fine brandy up there. We can sit and talk.”
    The man shook his head. “No. I have only a few minutes here. I’m headed further south to the Windward Islands. How much money do you require?” Kemmer did his best to hide his surprise at