The Curacao Connection: A Jan Kokk Mystery

By R.F. Sullivan

American college girl, Jean Scott, mysteriously disappears from the luxury hotel, shared with her fiance on the Caribbean island of Curacao, once a Dutch colony. The distraught fiance hires private investigator Jan Kokk to find his missing bride-to-be. In his inimical larger-than-life manner, robust, corsair Kokk finds the missing girl. He also discovers a drug trafficking connection between Curacao and Miami, intensified by two related murders, unheard of on lovely, idyllic Curacao.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jun 21, 2012
• ISBN: 9781477217320

R.F. Sullivan

Living in the Hill Country of Texas, author Roy Sullivan, late of the US Army and US State Department, follows the antics of famous Curacao PI, Jan Kokk. The chase is tricky since Kokk flits from crimes in the Caribbean to Las Vegas, now back to the Caribbean. If you see the big Curacao investigator, tell Kokk his invitation to visit Texas is still open.

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© 2012 by R. F. Sullivan. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 06/14/2012

ISBN: 978-1-4772-1731-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4772-1732-0 (ebook)

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

ONE SUNDAY

TWO SUNDAY

THREE

FOUR MONDAY

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE WEDNESDAY

TEN

ELEVEN FRIDAY

TWELVE SATURDAY

THIRTEEN MONDAY

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN TUESDAY

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN WEDNESDAY

EIGHTEEN THURSDAY

NINETEEN FRIDAY

TWENTY SATURDAY

TWENTY-ONE

OTHER WORKS BY ROY F. SULLIVAN

Scattered Graves: The Civil War Campaigns of Confederate Brigadier General and Cherokee Chief Stand Watie

The Civil War in Texas and the Southwest

Escape from Phnom Penh: Americans in the Cambodian War

Escape from the Pentagon

The Texas Navies

The Texas Revolution: Tejano Heroes

FOR NANCY: EDITOR, PROOFREADER, PARTNER

ONE

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Sunday

Sliding into his habitual stool along the base of the bar farthest from the beach, the heavy man flipped his big straw hat onto the next bar stool and sighed. Bon dia, bar, he said, more to himself than to the gleaming wood.

The bar in Willemstad, Curacao’s capital, sits at an angle to the small cove and man-made beach which are the chief assets of the old bleached white hotel standing watch over a neighborhood of decaying tenements.

At this time of day—between daylight and contesting dusk—the sun bounced atop the lapping waves and bathed the crowded little beach in a Roman hue.

Jan Kokk was thick and heavy set—the foolhardy might call him fat, but only once—measuring exactly six feet four inches tall or so he was told. The big straw-hat, once set at a rakish angle, hid curly, grayish hair which he seldom tended or trimmed. A bushy moustache, sunburned cheekbones, surprisingly prominent, and observant brown eyes set in a square, determined Caribbean corsair face, made people look twice. Especially the ladies.

Kokk squinted into the sunset, despising the beach for its falseness. Both the sand and the palms had been imported from Barbados for the tourists’ benefit. Nonetheless this bar remained his favorite nesting place since it was only minutes away from his pigmy office squeezed between painless dentist and coffin-maker offices on Pietermaaiweg Street in Willemstad.

The graying waiter in a frayed starched white jacket set a bottle of beer in front of Kokk. Your beverage, Jan. Albert always said the same words without inflection to the big man hunched behind the stern of the bar. Kokk, after all, was his best and daily customer.

Gingerly Kokk curled his fingers around the bottle. Satisfied with its temperature, he nodded absently and began wiping perspiration from his neck with the crisp circular napkin accompanying the beer.

His toilet completed, Kokk crumpled the napkin in his big hand and flung it neatly into the waste bin under the cash register. As soon as the napkin left his hand, the beer was at his lips in practiced reflex.

Damnably hot today, Albert, he observed.

Clamor from the beach rose spasmodically while a swimming class gained headway. Fortified by another gulp from the bottle, Kokk watched the youngsters thrash arms and legs, parodying their swimming instructor’s stroking and kicking motions. He felt good, with a cold beer in hand, the glimmering white sand and the children’s merriment before him. He motioned to Albert for another.

A strident voice interrupted his reverie. Mr. Kokk!

It came from a young man looking uncertain and awkward despite his harsh tone. He took the next stool, holding Kokk’s big hat in his hand. The newcomer was intense and spare with long blond hair, a triangular forehead and startling blue eyes.

I’m John Hamphill and I’ve got to talk to you!

Kokk’s throat contractions continued for another moment, then subsided. Only then did he turn to look beside him. You just did. He gently replaced the empty bottle beside the new one.

The younger gestured nervously. I mean really talk, Mr. Kokk.

A free hand affirmed the position of the newcomer’s oval, gold framed glasses. His bright yellow sports shirt sharply contrasted with Kokk’s tent-like smudged white shirt and wrinkled trousers. I’m desperate! Please help me!

Kokk rubbed the moisture from the neck of the cold-beaded bottle. It would have felt good to press the bottle’s cold length across his forehead. So he did.

The intruder hitched his barstool closer to Kokk’s. I’ve just been thrown out of the office of your police chief. Before he showed me the door he said you were the best detective on Curacao.

Kokk guffawed. I’m the only detective on Curacao. Did he tell you that, too?

The young man ignored the question and rubbed his eyes. The police chief said you could help me since you’re between, he hesitated for the word, cases. At this, Kokk chuckled.

Please Mr. Kokk. Help me find my fiancee. She’s disappeared!

Kokk wondered when the swimming class would end. Distractions at the bar, his bar and on his time, irritated him. If he wanted more ‘cases’ he’d place an advertisement in the Antilliaans Dagblatt.

Kokk wagged a finger at Albert as he spoke very deliberately to the gold-framed glasses. Despite what Chief van Hooser told you, go back to him. If there’s been a crime committed, the police cost nothing. Go back.

Tears welled behind oval glasses as Hamphill flipped an American twenty dollar bill on the bar. Look, I’m buying!

His voice cracked. Your police don’t give a damn about Jean. They imply… they think… that she left me for another man.

Kokk eyed the twenty-dollar bill. The investigation business had been slow lately, except for the occasional divorce or runaway. He turned again to the weepy young man. Why couldn’t, ah… Jean have left you exactly as the police suggest?

Eyebrows reacted behind the gold frames. No! She loves me. I know she does! The words tumbled out. She’s in trouble somewhere on this island! I’ve got to find her and help her.

The big man nodded at the two frosted bottles Albert placed in front of them. Since you bought this round, perhaps you’d better tell me the story, the entire story. Then I’ll decide if I can help you or not.

Hamphill poked Kokk’s arm. Look, man! You’ve got to help! You’re the only one I can turn to! Hamphill’s rising inflection made Albert turn from wiping glasses.

Kokk blinked. Very well, Mr. Hamphill. Take a sip of our fine Amstel beer. Then tell me what happened in as much detail as you can.

He tipped his bottle and set it down carefully. Slowly, he added, as much to the bottle as to Hamphill.

The noise of the children in the swimming class, practicing their breathing exercises sharply contrasted with the young man’s intense look and almost whispered rendition. Jean and I met at school, he began.

Where is school?

At the University of Miami… Florida. I was finishing my degree in business and Jean is a lit-ed major.

Kokk blinked. Pardon?

She majors in literature and education. At the semester break we decided to come down here for some sun and relaxation. Hamphill rubbed his eyes then began polishing his glasses with the edge of the sports shirt. Initially he looked Kokk in the eye, then veered away to a spot on the detective’s broad forehead.

Who paid for your trip? You or Jean?

I did, Mr. Kokk. And I can afford you, too, I think. If not, my parents will help out.

What do they think about you and Jean coming to Curacao? Kokk eyed the beach, then added, by yourselves. Years ago Kokk would have hesitated at the addendum, now it was just another question to be asked.

Hamphill’s mood changed. Are you a prude, Mr. Kokk? My parents didn’t object. Do you?

Kokk dug into a pocket for a small pipe, then fumbled for the tobacco pouch. You’ve forgotten? I want to hear your entire story and from the start. I must know everything about the two of you and how you came to be here. He started to pack the pipe.

Then he pointed with the pipe-tamping finger. Or I won’t lift a finger to help you.

Chastened, Hamphill ducked his head, then tasted his beer for the first time.

Kokk struck a match against the underside of the bar. You might start by telling me if her parents approved of your trip.

Jean’s parents are dead. Her mother died several years ago and her father sometime before that.

Kokk shaded his eyes. Two fishing boats were passing the entrance to the cove that faced the hotel beach, making for the bay entrance to the east before the sun set. The boats bounced emptily atop the waves. Judging from their freeboard, the fish had been scarce.

Kokk puffed vigorously on the pipe to encourage it. You liked Jean enough to finance an expensive between-semester excursion. Why do you think she ran away once she landed here in paradise?

Hamphill squinted at the palm fronds above the bar. We love each other! Can’t you understand? We have a great relationship ever since we met last year. We’re, he struggled with the tense, rationally compatible.

Kokk spit expertly into the sand beneath his barstool. I don’t know what that means. Obviously I’m not qualified to help you.

Look, Mr. Kokk, Hamphill pleaded, tears returning. Give me five more minutes. If you still don’t want to help, I’ll leave you alone.

Kokk shrugged and finished his beer.

We arrived here yesterday, Hamphill began again. On the Air Antilles flight at noon. We got a taxi and checked into the hotel, then went shopping. Everything was fine. Blue eyes glistened at the memory.

Which hotel?

The one by the pontoon bridge, the International. After lunch, I went down to the hotel pool. Jean was going to join me in a few minutes. I guess I must have dozed off, waiting for her.

Hamphill shook his head at the recollection. She never came.

Kokk’s stomach growled loudly but he pretended not to notice. He had skipped breakfast that morning. Hamphill sighed. "So I went upstairs to see what was keeping her. She was gone. Gone!

I checked with the clerk at the hotel counter. He remembered a man visiting our room while I was at the pool. His forehead wrinkled. A tall man with a bushy moustache, the clerk described him. He stayed upstairs just a few minutes, then left the hotel by himself. A few minutes later and Jean tore out with her rollaway and purse without saying a word to anyone, he panted.

Kokk cleared his throat and patted Hamphill absently on the shoulder, urging the American to complete the story despite his obvious discomfort.

Wiping his nose with a bar napkin, Hamphill took a deep breath and continued. I haven’t seen or heard from Jean since!

No note?

No note.

Was the clerk certain she didn’t leave with her visitor?

No, she didn’t! Hamphill began polishing his glasses again. Blinking back tears, he implored Please please please help me find Jean before something bad happens to her. Maybe it already has!

Did the clerk actually see Jean leave the hotel?

He said so.

By taxi? In the stranger’s car? How?

Hamphill hung his head on the bar, knocking over his unfinished beer. Taxi cab.

Kokk tapped out his pipe